Remember when my love,
just a short while ago,
I had wished deeply for your love letters.
Reminding you if not told often enough,
my insecure heart will convince my overthinking mind
you do not care for me.
And you had.
As my body rested tangled in the soft downy duvet of my little attic room,
Yours was still awake, devoting your precious time and words to a paragraph that,
in the still air of the early morning, would greet my giddy heart.
As if I were the perfect habitat for your gifted butterflies,
I would be consumed with love, warmth, and security.
There’s no comparable feeling to this I thought as I read all the little details of the day before,
him expressing his happiness and joy of our time spent talking.
He’d wish me sweet dreams, even though I wouldn’t read it until the sun awoke the next morning.
But,
as time passed,
those love letters soon, sentence by sentence, became less and less existent.
Like the sun setting each night,
his words of love too gave into the tiredness and darkness.
However, he’d still wish me good morning even if I had been up for hours already.
And I suppose, reflecting on it now, I should have been more grateful for those
Good morning loves.
As if the change indeed happened overnight,
He suddenly stopped reaching out to me first.
In fear of losing such a unique soul,
I began messaging him first, and, even though his reply was always simple,
I began writing him nightly love letters.
Paragraphs reflected the words he had spoken to me,
demonstrating to him how I listened and held close that which he confided in me.
Though I enjoyed writing him love letters,
the butterflies invading my body soon became restless,
their fluttering wings tired from not being refreshed and reminded of their reason of existence.
Heavy with the weight of insecurity,
their hopeful wings gave into the boredom coiled in his every word.
What my mind perceived as boredom soon became the downfall of my devotion and excitement to wake up each morning
for, when I woke,
an indescribable disappointment weighing heavier than my plush pile of blankets
filled my soul as I realized
he had become too comfortable to put in the effort for love letters.
- Hillary Deschamps
just a short while ago,
I had wished deeply for your love letters.
Reminding you if not told often enough,
my insecure heart will convince my overthinking mind
you do not care for me.
And you had.
As my body rested tangled in the soft downy duvet of my little attic room,
Yours was still awake, devoting your precious time and words to a paragraph that,
in the still air of the early morning, would greet my giddy heart.
As if I were the perfect habitat for your gifted butterflies,
I would be consumed with love, warmth, and security.
There’s no comparable feeling to this I thought as I read all the little details of the day before,
him expressing his happiness and joy of our time spent talking.
He’d wish me sweet dreams, even though I wouldn’t read it until the sun awoke the next morning.
But,
as time passed,
those love letters soon, sentence by sentence, became less and less existent.
Like the sun setting each night,
his words of love too gave into the tiredness and darkness.
However, he’d still wish me good morning even if I had been up for hours already.
And I suppose, reflecting on it now, I should have been more grateful for those
Good morning loves.
As if the change indeed happened overnight,
He suddenly stopped reaching out to me first.
In fear of losing such a unique soul,
I began messaging him first, and, even though his reply was always simple,
I began writing him nightly love letters.
Paragraphs reflected the words he had spoken to me,
demonstrating to him how I listened and held close that which he confided in me.
Though I enjoyed writing him love letters,
the butterflies invading my body soon became restless,
their fluttering wings tired from not being refreshed and reminded of their reason of existence.
Heavy with the weight of insecurity,
their hopeful wings gave into the boredom coiled in his every word.
What my mind perceived as boredom soon became the downfall of my devotion and excitement to wake up each morning
for, when I woke,
an indescribable disappointment weighing heavier than my plush pile of blankets
filled my soul as I realized
he had become too comfortable to put in the effort for love letters.
- Hillary Deschamps
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