Freedom fighter

by @litdev

I’m sorry. It took me a while to write; otherwise, to love for love is vague and to write is as dim.

Give me your hand and I’ll sit on it. I’ll follow the lines and trek on the path where the end can be found, where our fate can be clenched and crushed and contused as you write our story- I was there.

I will sway with your fingers and I will hang on your callus, I’ll sleep on your nails- at the corner, with the dirt- to prove that love is not as clean as the ink that can spill.

I’m sorry. It took me a while to write and to love you back.

I didn’t know you can write, I didn’t know you can make love.

Forgive me, I received your letter but did not read it. I’d rather finish a cup of coffee than read the words because once I slit the mail wide open, it will bleed- like my chest. One by one, you pulled my ribs off, one then the other. And I was there, breathing because I still have lungs but barely living- I had no soul.

Will you still give me another cup? No, not coffee. Just a little empty cup where I can collect my blood and drink it, to give me life and to love, to love to love you back.

I know you still have time to write another letter and send it to me. So please, do me a favour. Write again and I’ll sit on your palm, I’ll sway with your finger and sleep underneath your skin. But this time, I’m not afraid to slit it wide open for I have nothing to lose, I have nothing to gain.