Late-night Meaningless Rambles

Dearest,  

I'm not sure whether I should address you by that anymore. Or anything, at all. I'm not even sure whether you exist. Did you, like ever, exist even? I can't really tell for sure. Your whole existence appears to be blurry - like a distant signal through the fog. Fog of memories, memories that I've locked secretly in a box. 

Why am I writing to you in the first place? I was not supposed to. Still, we tend to do things we are not supposed to - such as, me falling for you. We promised to each other, that come what may, we will fall together. It took me quite a long time to realise that I was the only one who fell - and nobody was there to pick me up. I was falling, and falling, and falling - frantically searching for your hand to hold me and pick me up - but it was nowhere to be seen or felt. Like my existence in your life, it too was something that was just inside my head. 

Someday, perhaps I will gather the courage to come out of this foggy hideout. It's very dampy here. The air is so heavy to breathe in. So heavy that I sometimes feel breathless. Not sometimes, but always maybe. Or maybe not. Certainty is not something I'm certain of. Someday, I will come out of this fog and be certain. Of everything. Of you. Of me. I will be forgetful of the fact that I brought you roses. I wrote you letters. You are the last one I wrote letters to. Now letters don't come to me anymore. I don't visit them anymore. The only thing that I know that I will not be writing letters anymore. Or bring roses. 

With an abstract feeling that can never be expressed, just felt -

Yours (in the past, at least)

.....