Dear future love, it's during nights like this one that I dream of having the warm comfort of your incandescent imaginary body, that I dream of everytime I close my eyes and finally have the only free hours of serenity i'm allowed to, to comfort my turmoil and aching mind. I sometimes wonder if you actually exist, if truth be told, I think about your existence all of the time. Are you out there somewhere? Am I just a delusional piece of atoms who are not living nor surviving, but existing, simply? Or may you, by miracle of the Greatest, be writing about me just as I am about you? My mind revolves around your heart melting with some kind of gold warmth, grabbing a pen and a piece of paper, and wondering about my existence, writing the most heart-aching gut ripping out poetry about me ever wrote before, feeling and loving every inch of my soul without even knowing who may I be, or who I try to appear. I can tell you right now, that I'm trying to be the greatest of me for you. I promise to cook you your favourite meal everytime you desire, even though I burn myself most of the times. I promise to be loyal to you even when a soulless being points at me a weapon and tells me to look at another man instead of you. I promise to always give my best to explain my inner feelings, instead of being cruel and yelling at the man I love the most. I'm sorry if my promises are not enough for you to meet me. I'm sorry I feel unlovable every single day of my poor and useless existence, turning you into one of the endless "maybe in another life" on my list. I'm sorry my friends always received flowers and I just stand there. I'm sorry everyone around me has a pair of arms as their home, while mine is the pillow I hug during my sleep thinking about maybe, just maybe, one day feeling your heartbeat under my rest.
I'm sorry for not being good enough for you. I sometimes think, that you're not a specific person, but a spot for endless possibilities during my life, that may change everytime I meet somoene new. Is there anybody willing to take that spot? Why does everybody's spots seem so interesting and appealing but mine is still, and always was, empty? Am I not pretty enough? Am I too fat? Am I too skinny? Is my skin not soft or clear enough? Are my eyes too big? My lips too small? Is my heart not already big enough? Is it because of what I'm writing currently? Do I sound desperate? Crazy? Maybe I am. Maybe I like being crazy. But I hate getting crazy when you tell me "the right time will come" as if I haven't been waiting for years now, or "you have to love yourself first", as if I didn't starve myself for months to achieve the only point of my body where I knew I would feel comfortable in my own skin. Leave me alone. Sincerely, just leave me alone. Don't talk to me. I would rather be loved by a non-speaking person and wake up with a beautifully written poetry every morning than trying to keep a conversation with a person who speaks perfectly but makes my heart feel deaf.

Heartily, fuck you. (Not my future love)

© cal