A letter to you where I say I have writer’s block when I really mean I’m afraid.

I’m trying to hate you as much as I hate not writing. But I don't.
I’m not sure how to.
I’m trying to hate you almost as much as I hate not writing. But I don’t. I’m not sure how to.
All I can say is I’m stuck–
Writer’s block. 

Writer’s block because you might read my next work.
Writer’s block because I can’t promise you any more than my own humanity.
Writer’s block that I’m going to name you my shame & you are not shame.
You’re also not mine. 

Writer’s block because most days I miss you.
Writer’s block because some days I don’t.
Some days I indulge goodness and give it invitations to my future–
even if that future doesn’t include you.
I go to cafes and order matchas, extra sweet, & sit and watch people pass by.
I read books when the sun shines.
I show up to work on time (mostly).
I paint pictures with my feet.
I’ve been known to dance when the beat is right.
I meet new people that don’t hear your name when I say mine
& some things haven’t changed even though everything shifted.
Writer’s block because I outlived us & the memory of our prosperity is becoming distant. 

I know you’re not really on the other side of this letter
but as I write this with faulty hands & a bleeding heart
my speech-to-text sounds something like this:

we love delete loved each other deeply period I think our belief of infallibility was our downfall period we refused to tend to the relationship as much as we needed to comma resulting in a fissure that wordlessness did not suffice in closing period At least we weren't deluded into thinking silence could close us back together period Saving graces delete delete select all delete god fuck delete delete I’m

Writer’s block because I am moving on. Writer’s block because I’m not ready.