… letters to van gogh?

As I walked through the tree lined, knarled streets of a suburb the hope that my mind would clear of the things which haunted my dreams and curdled my soul. Hours of wondering aimlessly from one street corner to another, I sat at the base on a tree nestled in an enclave on my home ridge and took in a city shrouded from view in a blanket of smog. Thoughts running between two loves that had pierced the veil of my heart and in an instant the tears came, and like damn burst by an explosive emotion, I was wracked by uncontrollable sobbing as my throat was dry and hurting.

And then, against every instinct I reached out again to a conflicted man in a vain hope. But like a stray dog who follows the first hand that offers it some kindness, I realised I was lying to myself and to him and with this sunset the dream would be over. He would never say those three words containing the eight syllables I wanted … needed him to say. Not when by the return of the full moon, the holder of his heart returned back into his arms and he would say them while experiencing the exquisite pleasure his physicality brings in the early hours of the morning. The feeling I would never have again.

And so, for years admiring the ruthlessness that comes with a cold heart from lovers past realised it’s only a matter of time before I shared this trait too. After all it’s how the life works – the one who has a broken heart goes on to break someone else’s?

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