My Dearest Julia,
Fervently do I recall the songs I most adored during your last days. I Don't Know by I See Rivers, and Elijah by Matthew and The Atlas. Next week would make it a month since you left, and everyday I play either of the two songs. I do so to remember what it was like having you around during those last days.
It sincerely hasn't been easy. I have had to live with my depression all by myself, a burden you shared with me. We promised each other forever, and counted ourselves lucky to have found each other.
‘Why do you always say we are so lucky?’ you used to say, ecstacy in your tone.
‘Because everybody is looking for what we have,’ was always my response.
It made you so happy to know that I cherished us, that I valued your loyalty. Of late I have imagined my grave beside yours. Told myself I'd hate to live a day older than you were. It'd be unkind, I have said to myself.
Recently I have become desperate for love, registering on dating websites, searching for a heart remotely close to yours. I am afraid no one will ever love me as much as you did. No one will ever forgive me as many times as you did, and for that I am frightful.
Met someone recently. She has your jaw, your height, your stature, lips, besides every other thing. Things are looking up, although, unlike you, she finds it difficult to say I am sorry. I worry it is something I won't be able to live with.
Today, since the second week of your passing, marks the first time I cried for us. I was taking a shower when I remembered how you would scrub your back, how you raised your breasts and scrubbed beneath. I fell to my knees and wept until the bubbles dried on my skin. It is true what they say - time heals, but once in a while the scar opens up again and we are burnt.
Cannot believe how certain of tomorrow I was with you, how I looked to my future and knew that I could be everywhere and anywhere but always will return to you.
You promised me forever, went as far as saying you loved me more and your love would last the longest. It isn't your fault I am alone and desperate to be loved. Nothing is to be blamed, not even the devil. Everything dies, I tell myself now. Try not to get too attached.
The new girl I told you about is beautiful, but only when you pick distinct features of hers, like the lips, eyes, and figure eight. She says she loves me. Every time we are having a good time for a moment I zone out and start to imagine her six feet under. I am afraid I will never see anything as living again. I am afraid everything will always be dead to my eyes.
