Dear First Love.

I am staring at my phone blankly trying to formulate words in my head to write this letter to you but my mind is void and my heart is empty. The emotions I once had that would have made it easier for me to write to you are long gone, they left two and a half years after you did. My left hand is on my head, playing with my kinky hair and occasionally scratching my scalp.

I feel and look defeated because I can’t seem to find the words that would best describe the kind of life you and I had together, our experiences and encounters, our good and bad times, the mistakes we made and the lessons I learnt from them and from loving you.

A part of me is scared that even if I do find the words to write to you, they will not do us justice because we once possessed the kind of love that cannot simply be reduced to mere writing; at least I did and when I’d retire to my bed every night I would secretly hope that you felt the same way about me as I did you. Hell! I’d even ask God to intervene and fight my battles with your heart and ultimately overpower it with love for me and for the daughter you wanted us to make when we’d make love. Our love I believe was not the kind you watch in movies or read about in books, ours was unique to us and for that reason I still remember us fondly.

“What do I tell him first,” I keep asking myself only because I am nervous and I’d hate my lack of composure to scare you off before you even get a glimpse of what’s on my mind. I am nervous because we haven’t talked in 3 years, nervous because you might have changed and are no longer the man I’d like to think I once knew like the back of my coal-black hands, nervous because I’ve changed and I no longer love you with so much burning intensity like I once did; the thought of you no longer makes me want to catch on fire and incinerate with love, pleasure and desire for all eternity.

A lot has happened ever since you left me and for some reason I feel the need to tell you everything in detail because maybe then you’ll understand me better after all the devil is always in the details but I’ll cut to the chase, just this once.

As I write this letter my aim is merely to remind you of the day you came back into my life, a life that you had destroyed with no remorse and was in the brink of extinction. Not even the love that you’d vehemently confess to me could deter you from committing such a heinous act. An act that left me in a torpid state for many a times.

I find it rather queer that I am not writing this to you with a mind drowned in whiskey and a body incognizant of it’s movements; because you only ever seemed to dwell in my mind whenever I’d try to inundate my sorrows with alcohol, and mask my frustrations with the same.

“One day I’ll write to him,” I’d tell myself, those nights when I’d be lying in a pool of my own tears, on a cold tiled floor after downing bottles of whiskey with my eyes red and soar, my hands on my chest and my lungs desperately gasping for air.

But today I am as sober as they come, how things change! I am the happiest I have ever been in a long while and looking back now I am glad that you were just a path I had to pass through in my shoddy attempt to navigate my way through this thing called life, a lesson I needed to learn and a love I needed to lose in order to truly fathom the concept of love and experience first hand how love feels when it takes over a person’s soul.

Now that I have the cojones to talk to you without compromising my mental and emotional stability, I’ll pen this letter to you and a few more and I hope they will all find you well wherever you are.

*I was home alone that day you called, drinking water laced with whiskey with my eyes glued on the television screen and my mind deeply engrossed in whatever it is I was watching.*

No! I am not an alcoholic but you already know that because you knew me better than most, better than I even knew myself if I dare say so. I’d drink because after you left alcohol was the only thing that gave me comfort, the kind of comfort that you had accustomed me to. It would numb the pain that you had single-handedly designed for me and calm my racing thoughts. Thoughts that would make me so uneasy, so dejected and so tired of living amongst humans with superficial souls who were so wrapped up in themselves that they were indifferent to my struggles.

These Thoughts would push me to my breaking point. A point where I’d vividly see my body lifeless but at peace with you, with myself and with the unforgiving world I had left behind. I’d sporadically let alcohol into my system and the feeling of it taking over my body would pacify me as the world around me faded into nothingness and my mind wandered off to find you.

*I could feel my phone vibrating from a distance but my body was too weak to reach out for it because it had already given in to the Jack Daniel’s I was consuming. My stubborn mind however compelled it to do so. I gathered enough strength, stretched my arms and pulled the phone closer to me. The number I saw was unfamiliar to me but I answered the phone nonetheless.

“Hello,’’ I said with a frown written all over my miserable face*



  1. Wow. What a piece! Carefully thought out, after pulling all the strings from the moral and emotional fabrics and woven into a touching, coherent whole. Thanks for sharing your rich skills, friend. It inflames and resonates and provokes identification. Kudos.

    Liked by 2 people

      1. So unfortunate that at such an age we’re still struggling to accept ourselves. If people can’t accept you the way you are and for who you are, then they shouldn’t even be in your life in the first place.

        Liked by 1 person

  2. “when I’d retire to my bed every night I would secretly hope that you felt the same way about me as I did you. Hell! I’d even ask God to intervene and fight my battles with your heart and ultimately overpower it with love for me and for the daughter you wanted us to make when we’d make love.”
    This part especially touched my soul , i know this feeling oh so well . Amazing Read !

    Liked by 2 people

  3. I’ve avoided your other Careless Casanova posts because I’m not into porn or erotic stories, Jane.. But you’ve visited my blog so often, I thought I’d give yours one more try. Now, this post I liked! It’s sad, of course, but it speaks of longings and pain that are real.

    Liked by 2 people

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