November Night.

Hey you,

I hope you’re doing well. How many years has it been since I picked up my pen for you? Five? Two? One and a half? I don’t know...
I’ve stooped writing about you, you know.
It finally happened somehow. I guess it’s true when they say that the deepest of rivers run dry at one point. And it seems my river of ink that was stored solely for you and you only has finally fallen to its death.
But then again, I am still writing towards you at this very moment.

Huh... You can’t ever tell, now can you?

December is drawing nearer with every passing second. I can feel it sweeping deep within my bones. It’s only at this time of the year, that I find your memories haunting me. I guess some things can never be changed, no matter how many years pass by.

Do you still remember the time when the deep brown leaves of winter were what attracted you the most about this season?
Sun bright above our head, hands covered with winter gloves, we would scour the woods to find the most beautiful ones. And when we’d manage to find one with the slightest tint of orange in it, you’d smile so brightly that even the sun would look faint in my eyes.

It took me seventeen years to realise that I had been deeply in love with you then. And it’s taking, six years and counting, to get out of that spiral hell of misery.

I sometimes wonder why everyone loves differently than the other. It never gets into my head. Shouldn’t love, in its truest of forms, be the same? So how come, whenever I try to stand before you and compare what I had for you and what you had for me, it ends up looking so different? I will never know...

You looked beautiful on your wedding day, you know? That deep red shade of your suit went beautifully with your dark brown hair. I just wish your eyes would have stuck more to the woman you married, instead of me, who stood in a corner and watched you with a bittersweet smile.

Am I that unforgettable? So stunning that you still find it hard to look at someone else when I’m around? Even the thought of something so bizarre sets me of in a fit of laughter.

Or is it just as me, who finds the memories of endless winters and deep brown leaves reflecting in your eyes that keeps me turning back to look at you helplessly?
Do my memories still haunt you? Do you still feel December coming towards you, just as warm as my cold hands felt inside the pocket of your hoodie when you tried to give it heat in the dead of night?

My dear beloved, the princess who escaped from the kingdom I never built,
I think I’ve finally lost you.
So I hope, I truly truly hope, that wherever the winds my find you, on whichever tree you have found to rest your head in, in whoever arms you have chosen to build a home in, you find peace.

I have never stopped loving you.

And I know, no matter how much my pen runs dry, how many times my river dies, I’ll still think of you.

Just like I am right now, on this cold November night.