another unsent letter

Dear I.,

I went to sleep last night thinking, There, I’ve gone and done it again! I chided myself for not saying what I meant… what I wanted… to say. And all along the words were waiting on the tip of my tongue… waiting for me to part my lips and release them.

Do you know the feeling inside that moment? When you want to say something and you’ve got it right there on the tip of your tongue? And you just know that this time… this time… you will say it… but then something else comes out? It’s as if another’s voice has possessed your spirit… and is stealing your breath… and is speaking through your lips… and is stealing your soul. It’s the feeling of impotence that is most breaking, in that moment. The feeling that you should be doing something… could be doing something… but you’re not… because you can’t. No. Because you won’t!

How do I make time go back so I can say to you what I needed to say? These words are frozen inside my throat. But… if it were possible for time to go back… even then… mine would be a fabricated… forced… staged statement.

I stage scenarios inside my head, and when the instant comes to execute them… I execute them, in the true sense of the word ‘execute.’ I murder the act before it is born. And I am left with my hands parted in wordless dejection.

Will you ever forgive me? I will never forgive you if you do.