Last year

We made a building of words.

More specifically,

Forty emails,

Sixty texts,

And

Countless post-its.

Sentence after sentence of fantasy.

Back then,

Fantasy was perfect.

fan·ta·sy

Noun

The activity of imagining things, especially things that are impossible or improbable.

Soon I realized there was too much fantasy

And it crumpled

Our house crumpled.

It left me mentally homeless

No sanctuary, no sanity.

And I became irrational

Because all I wanted was a house again.

I built houses with strangers,

But they fell too.

Because, like ours,

They weren’t real.

And I was left with nails and wood and all the necessities

But no one to build a house with me.

And as desperation escalated

I tried to give the remains to you,

Tried to show you the ashes of our house.

You passed it off as loneliness

And you ignored the ashes.

And the distance between us grew.

A year passed

I made one more try.

One more grasp at your mind,

But no new results.

Lucky me.

But I’m not sad anymore, I’m not scared of failure like I was.

I have many houses

And many stable walls.

With many people who will help me,

Help me keep my house.

You weren’t willing to put in the effort required

To have a house.

And now I write,

Comfortable inside the walls of my house,

And I wonder what life is like for you.

I hope you find your house, M,

I do.

And thanks. Because I won’t fall for that again.