Letter to Olly

Olly...startled I woke up in the dead of night, that leak, the dripping, it's back again, or maybe, Olly it had never left, never stopped smashing itself against the rotted wood floors. If it were only the cold seeping through, it would have been eassier to forget, to forge an emotion. I had a good day, when that day was I cannot remember or maybe, Olly, maybe that day has yet to pass, I cannot tell you what was so "good" about that...or this day...I find myself tumbling in between the cracks...I hoped that if I fell long enough, further down, or is it up, Olly, that I might find you there, or at least parts of you...but this veil of authenticity has become such a burden to wear, I find hardly any delight in it anymore. I started to paint again, Olly do you remember the colors...a vast array of black on black that never mixed with grey? It still stuck to your hands as you left traces all over the walls...that dripping is insistent...it's driving me to the brink of insanity, perhaps Olly, that is where I will find you.
LetterstoOlly LetterstoOlly
31-35, F
Aug 22, 2014