The 12th of December 2015 – Washington, DC

(found in a deep corner of his heart, bloody and bruised, broken)

My Leah,

This is what happens when you stop listening. For better or worse, I need some way to get rid of this pain, this thought. So I climb onto a stage and cut open my chest. But don’t be alarmed, for I am no masochist. I find pleasure in the audience’s gaze, not in the pain.

I would have done so much for you – anything, in fact. I would have swam oceans with you on my back if only to give you the opportunity to see dolphins swimming in the deep sea. I would have moved mountains with my bare hands if only to give you a better view of the sunrise. I would have sat in the basement of the library, flipping through book after book, if only to whisper into your ear every word of love written in the English language.

But it is of no matter now.

The one you loved is dead, and you have killed him. You shattered his heart into pieces, and he spent months with tears in his eyes, trying to fit the thousands of shards back together. Then he tossed it carelessly to the side, knowing that he couldn’t make it right again, knowing that it would all be futile even if he could.

But it is of no matter now.

The world is my heart, and I feel the pulse of the earth beat through the soles of my feet. I walk down sidewalks with my arms outstretched, taking in the feelings of billions, absorbing the thoughtful auras of those walking by, satisfied with the dissatisfaction that surrounds me. My mouth hangs open, like a dog’s, and I take in ragged gulps of polluted air. I do not even try to stop the blood pouring from my chest. There will be a mess to clean. There must be.

Because it is of no matter now.

You know my power. You know that, one day, I will sit beneath a bodhi tree and silence an army of a million demons with nothing more than a single gesture.

Congratulations on giving me back my anger and my hatred – for you, for the world and, most of all, for myself. I thank you for returning to me that sense of being wronged, that eternal grievance I had so carelessly dropped when our eyes first met over two mugs of steaming cocoa. I had been so happy without it and, yet, itching with discontent.

But it is of no matter now.

There is work to be done.

Be gone, my precious memories.

Farewell my love,

Topher

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