a foreign letter

dear dear,

i never meant to speak about never, especially those things that will never come again. those memories that float further from the first time i learned the word float, when i tried one, when i learned how to with you and without too. instead, this is all meant to account these days that bleed irresponsibly. it is meant to clot the wound, to serve as a way to let the hurt heal.

often, the problem with that is i wake up, i brush my teeth, i shit, i shower, i think what else must there be. i work. i study. i talk to some friends. they talk to me. i eat the same meal in the same way with the same shows playing to not make me think of anything besides the studied, the worked. i know the words enough.

these words i do not. i sit here among the woken, the brushed, the shitted and showered, thoughtlessly. i say, she will not read this most likely. but i will. for this is it exactly: my will. and it will never cease looking for you.

yours,
kacper