Friday, 5 April 2013

An open letter which, I hope, you one day find. 

I am writing you a letter than I will never send, much like the letter I wrote six years ago. I penned that during my last night in Brighton and sealed it with hope before placing it in my holdall, but when we met in Victoria, I couldn't let go of it, do you recall? I guess not.

I still carry a flame for you. During my mostly unsettling times you have been there, we talked a lot through my first year of university and I remember sending you a text asking, part in jest, if you would take my hand. After a few weeks of flirtation you simply disappeared. A year later, I walked with my friend and then confidant, along the beaches of East Devon, and whilst staring wishfully at the crashing waves on the soft clay rock, I recall the words “If asked I would drop everything to be with him in London” falling out of my mouth.

This happened, in part, after Rome, when I stayed with you.  I could have easily not returned to my studies, but rationale (as always seems to be the case) won, and for that I guess I will always be sorry.

During our Italian Holiday we were like lovers, and there is not a point in my life where I recall being so close to someone. Although Rome wasn't without its moments, I came back with a terrible holiday hangover. Do you recall I cried on our last night? For several weeks following our adventure I was able to bring happiness by recalling our trip. In an intimate encounter I withdrew after stating that you are the only person who I knew who could make me truly happy. I fear now that this time has passed.

When we met on those steps in Victoria station, on that oddly mild November in 2007, I knew there was something. Until recently I still kept tickets, photographs, found objects from that day, and quite often replay it, et al., in my head. Perhaps this is one of my major downfalls, as I increasingly imprison myself.

As the summer of 2011 faded, you told me you had met someone and preceding this, that you had kissed someone. I pressed the self destruct button. That night I slept with whomever I could find, and for several months after, I went from bed to bed.

Come September you stayed with me at my parent’s house in Devon and every night I cried myself to sleep knowing that you were only a few rooms away, the room that I grew up in, and that I couldn't have you.  During my trips to London I would often tell you how I “didn’t want to go back” to where ever it was I was heading; University, Devon, Bristol.  I was “so stressed”. But realistically, it was because nothing could have been as settling as being with you, even through our arguments, and even with the torture of knowing that you were someone else’s – although I have know that this has always been the case, yet for some reason it bothered me more this time.

When I met Richard, I was extremely jealous. I still am. When I meet your friends, I am jealous not because they are with you, but because they know a part of you that I don’t.  It seems all I really know is how to annoy you, and you I.

At times, and usually over the most trivial things, a hurricane spins in my chest, and my emotions boil over. This I guess is an example of that. I can pretend to be your best friend and wait for you in the hope that you might change your mind, another year, another six years, twenty, a life time. But I am hoping that by writing this, these feelings will somehow magically melt away and disappear leaving only sweet memories.

I have never met anyone, with whom I am as deeply infatuated with, in love with, and now I am calling to question how much of this is a product of my perception.

I moved to London with hopes and dreams that so many bring. Stability, employment, happiness and even a love of the mundane. I am here, not to better myself, but to find myself and now I'm wearing thin. I have come to realise, that no matter what I do, what I have, who I have, I will never have enough for you. I am in love with you; I would die by your hand. But the same cannot be said about you for I.