I know I'm slipping from your mind as I'm slipping from my own and losing myself in these forced final lines.
But hopefully you still remember how deathly terrified I am of endings. And time despite how much I love it.
I haven't felt any fire inside of my chest since the last moment you left again. And though this is the most okay I've been since you left.
I can't pick up this pen without being haunted by a blank page screaming at me that I'm a failure.
You know that saying, "If a writer falls in love with you, you can never die." Well don't worry, you're not dead.
Yet the last star you left that has been shining so weakly these last few months has died.
As I have as well.
I know I said this is the most okay I've been, but I can't do anything without feeling like I'm going through the motions.
I'm telling you this because this is the last letter I'll write you for a while.
This was the last star I had, and now I'm just an empty night sky.
I keep scribbling but there's no more ink, I think it's time I just sign my name and mail this out.
This is where I run out of space and ink.