letters || l.h

huit

dear luna,

i think this is going to be my last letter to you. i've grown tired of writing letters that you'll never read.

vincent van gogh once said, 'art is to console those who are broken by life.' my art was my writing; and that, in a way, was you. many times i looked to you for saving, but you were too busy saving somebody else; and i remember crying over you, draining myself over somebody who didn't even know my name. my friends used to yell at me, telling me to stop crying and go to a party. but my life was my party, and i'll cry to the end.

you, luna, are a poem that breathes. you played with matches and set my paper heart on fire.

minutes turned to hours, hours turned to days, days turned into months, and before i could even blink i've wasted two years thinking about you.

but perhaps i did not want to be loved so much as to be understood.

xx luke

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a/n: the end

xx e.