I'm suffocating; every gasped breath is harsh and acerbic. You've inadvertently and unknowingly secured a hangman's noose around my pale submissive neck that becomes slightly tighter with every word you never speak to me. Your silence is devastating, heart wrenching. You gnaw at the fringe of my mind and of my sanity, demanding the full weight of my thoughts, un-relenting, until I can think of nothing else but you. You are a cruel teaser, the very embodiment of everything I want, everything I cannot have.
Your interest, in whatever capacity it might have been, was sustained long enough for me to fall irrevocably and foolishly in love with you, and then torn away before that love could manifest as anything more than a searingly painful, moving, twisting blade inside my torso. You're tearing me apart from the inside out. I wonder when I'll become an empty cavity, a gaping abyss.
We affixed you and I, cohered, connected in ways that I have never connected with another. You looked upon me unabashed with understanding eyes and unconditional acceptance, as I exposed to you the dark, distorted contours of my lurid soul. And I did likewise as you revealed the darkest features of your's. Yet of late, for reasons I can only guess, you've built this wall between us, and though I pound upon it with clenched fist until my hands are bloody and broken, it does not waver.
You're slipping away from me, fading to a quite whisper. With every passing day you become more distant. I try to reach out gently and pull you close, but instead I end up clawing at you until your skin is collated beneath my broken finger nails. Memory and dream are all that remains, and empty words on a blank page. I would weep if I remember how. I cannot cry so instead I write. My hand rigidly fixed to this pen, a letter that you will never read, a pitiful attempt to fill the holes in my decaying heart with words.
I covet that which I cannot acquire and it is destroying me, consuming every aspect of my identity until I am nothing more that single sentiment, that longing for you, for what I cannot have. You could lift my spirits to the heights of mountain peaks with the smallest of embraces, little more than a breath of mediocre air, a few words, amounting to the length of a heart beat. Yet instead you destroy me with your absence, abolishing every thing about myself that I once thought of value until there is nothing more than a hollow cavity with a dim reflection of you inside.
Does it occur to you that, in all probability, no one will ever love you as much as I do at this brief and intimate moment in time? No one will ever feel this kind of infatuation for you, the kind of longing I feel at this instant. Yet I know that it's not what you want, not from me at least, and so you will never know, unless it slips between the cracks of my carefully chosen fa�ade, unless the truth seeps through my lies, because I will never tell you, and you will never read this.