نامه اول

My dearest,

I’ve been sitting here for hours, watching the moon crawl through the window, trying to write something that doesn’t sound like love. But everything that spills from my hands ends up shaped like you. Every word bends toward your name. Every sentence trembles with your breath.

I told myself I’d stop. That I’d stop turning you into metaphors, stop translating you into poetry you never asked to be.

But I can’t.

Because somewhere between your laughter and the way you looked at me that one time, you stopped being just a person and became something divine.

And I hate that.

I hate that I did that to you.

I wish you were still just a human to me.

I don’t want to look at you and see poetry.

But I do.

And I think I always will.

You exist in me like a quiet song that won’t end.

Even when I try to forget, even when I fill my head with noise, your melody lingers. soft, persistent, unforgiving.

You’ve become the ghost that moves between my ribs, the ache that feels too gentle to exorcise.

I keep trying to tell myself you are only a girl - flesh and blood and flaws - but my heart refuses to listen. It insists you are something eternal. The kind of beauty that ruins a person for anything else.

And I hate myself for loving you this way — not gently, not sanely — but with that burning devotion that eats everything it touches.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry that my love feels like a prayer.

I’m sorry that I look at you and forget how to speak in plain language.

I’m sorry that I’ve turned you into my favorite tragedy.

You didn’t ask to be worshipped, and yet every time you walk away, I feel like I’m being abandoned by a god I never believed in until you.

You’ve become a religion I never wanted to follow, and I keep kneeling at your altar, whispering your name like a confession.

I wish I could unlearn the way my soul leans toward you.

I wish I could scrub your voice out of my memories, your smile from my skin.

But even when I close my eyes, you’re there, in the spaces between my thoughts, in the places where light refuses to reach.

And still, somehow, I don’t regret it.

Even if it hurts. Even if it breaks me.

Because loving you feels like being alive for the first time, and dying for it, all at once.

Maybe that’s the curse of love like this

You can’t touch it without being consumed. You can’t look at her without seeing something that shouldn’t exist. You can’t walk away without bleeding.

I think if you ever loved me, even a little, you’d understand what I mean when I say:

you’re not just a person anymore. you’re the ache that built a home inside my bones.

And I’m sorry.

I’m sorry that I can’t stop writing about you, even though you’ll never read this.

I’m sorry that you’ve become the only truth that feels real.

I’m sorry that I keep finding you in every sunset, every quiet song, every breath that hurts too much to take.

I don’t want to love you.

But I do.

And I think I always will.

I wish you were still just a human to me.

I don’t want to look at you and see poetry.

But I do.

And I think I always will.

-‌ Yours, in every verse I never meant to write