Letters You Won't Receive
one
Dear you,
----I haven’t cried in one week. I keep thinking I must be out of tears because every inhalation of breath reminds me of the ones you no longer have the luxury of taking – and I want to cry. Believe me, I have enough sadness to wipe the grins from one-hundred happy people, enough sadness to rip all emotion from their bodies. And all that’s left behind is the despair that will sit on top of them – the despair that is shackled to every inch of me – like the shitty hunk of metal that struck you; that crushed you to the pavement, a mass of lacerated skin and snapped bone.
----Intoxicated men at the wheel of speeding cars are a recipe for death. He was drunk by ten a.m., incoherently singing along to some pop hit with his eyes closed. You had just bought a breakfast sandwich from the sleepy café on Opal Street; eagerly unwrapping your food (probably excited to taste the combination of egg, sausage, and English muffin because you were a breakfast food fanatic) while walking across the street when a blur of red appeared from your right.
----Did you know that he’s still crying? During his trials, he never stops, and it’s not fair that he’s able to produce a never ending stream of his guilt and idiocy when I can’t even force myself to give you one more tear.
----I’m sorry.
----My brain forces me to picture your mind often – what thoughts danced through your head, what feelings enveloped you in your last moment. I hope you felt joy before the world swallowed you.
----Sincerely,
-------------me
----I haven’t cried in one week. I keep thinking I must be out of tears because every inhalation of breath reminds me of the ones you no longer have the luxury of taking – and I want to cry. Believe me, I have enough sadness to wipe the grins from one-hundred happy people, enough sadness to rip all emotion from their bodies. And all that’s left behind is the despair that will sit on top of them – the despair that is shackled to every inch of me – like the shitty hunk of metal that struck you; that crushed you to the pavement, a mass of lacerated skin and snapped bone.
----Intoxicated men at the wheel of speeding cars are a recipe for death. He was drunk by ten a.m., incoherently singing along to some pop hit with his eyes closed. You had just bought a breakfast sandwich from the sleepy café on Opal Street; eagerly unwrapping your food (probably excited to taste the combination of egg, sausage, and English muffin because you were a breakfast food fanatic) while walking across the street when a blur of red appeared from your right.
----Did you know that he’s still crying? During his trials, he never stops, and it’s not fair that he’s able to produce a never ending stream of his guilt and idiocy when I can’t even force myself to give you one more tear.
----I’m sorry.
----My brain forces me to picture your mind often – what thoughts danced through your head, what feelings enveloped you in your last moment. I hope you felt joy before the world swallowed you.
----Sincerely,
-------------me
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I love writing in the epistolary style. I'm also kind of excited about this because I haven't written a song fic in ages. :-)Song: Limousine (MS Rebridge) - Brand New