My Dearest Xxxxxxxx,
I wrote this for you. Maybe you don’t remember, maybe you threw it away. But it was the last letter I ever sent to you.
She would be a random stranger. We would have met by chance.
I want to laugh with her, hold her hand, make her laugh again.
I want to look her in the eyes, like I’ve never done before, like I had eyes for her only.
I want to run in the rain with her, hand in hand. Kiss her under an old oak tree until she’s breathless, as the thunder roars around us.
I want to lie down next to her, as we gaze at the stars.
When she cries, I want to be her shoulder. Whether she was right or wrong, it wouldn’t matter.
When she’s angry, I want her to hit me, scream her heart out.
And when she’s calm, I want to kiss her hurting hands.
I want to share a loaf when we’re broke, my arms around her when she’s cold.
I want to sit by the window with her, as she reads her favourite book, share a blanket, foot on foot.
I am still a hopeless romantic, it is no sin. When or if it ends with us, I’ll have a smile on my face. None of the experiences in life are ever really mistakes. If they are, I’d rather make them. At least I’ll always know I lived my life, just the way I wanted to.