From gorging on the idea of epistolary love affairs to scribbling away bits of myself in journals that came with an expiry date, I find myself here again. I once took my jarring ideas of romance and tried to fit them on a single A4 size sheet of paper. I painted it and made it a point to burn the ends of the white ribbon that I used to seal the Royal Scroll of Repentance. 

But it came back to me. 

Crumpled, torn, and the ribbon missing. My fingertips itching and my breaths slowing down, collapsing against the bottom of my chest cavity.

I sold my pink and black colour fountain pen that day and resorted to using gel pens for they really couldn’t guilt me about giving up on my dreams now, could they?

From berating myself for being too attached to sentence structures that were purely technical in nature to realising what an awful life I’ve lived, I find myself here again. Hanging onto the words of another–a dead person who stopped creating a long time ago and the letters of two fictional characters as they indulge in a lesson I learnt a long time ago.

Every word stings, for it’s so real but it’s not mine. And when they decide to send across their declarations without signing off, I imagine what it must be like to write like a forgetting lover, to be a forgotten lover. 

I imagine going to bed with their words and caressing them till they have to leave. 

I imagine the bittersweet flavour of distance and longing at the back of my tongue. 

I imagine myself becoming all the sharing that is yet to begun.

They’re young in their pursuit of literary romance but I’m falling anyway. 


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