The Bisexual Chronicles: 1. Hamid

A collection of short letters on the theme of love

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I’ll let you go.

Although you’ll never know how hard it was for me to switch off my phone, force you from my mind and release you from my life. You’ll never know how my body caved at your lips on my skin, or how my limbs fell from under me at every embrace. My skin is saline with mourning for you. I wonder if you will remember my name, a year from now, or whether I will have slipped into faceless obscurity.

I wonder if you have ever thought of me since we parted, ever caught a glimpse of me in your mind for a few short seconds. I wonder if I was ever more than a childish face who flattered you with attention and praise. I sound bitter. I’m not, truly. I wish you joy and love and happiness in every moment and every step. I wish for your woman to hold you close at night and kiss you with the love I never confessed.

It’s foolish to want you, knowing I’d have little to say and less to share. I’ll detox you, cut you out coldly in unsent messages and unmade phone calls, congratulating the passing of each unsatiated day. Do you know I love you? I’ve never said so, but maybe that is what caused your unease. It is so hard to hide the ecstasy of holding you, the light of your presence within my bones. You speak of her often.

I do not dislike her, indeed, she is admirable. But she has your heart and I grow despondent at the syllables of her title. You’ve never said her name, but you must know I am haunted by your absent wife. I’d never cheat. I could never take you from her, or wish to. That’s why I’m letting go. I hope I fade, I hope I run into the watercolours of yesterday, and neither of us ever have to acknowledge that I loved you-

I imagine you looking up from your coffee, years from now with your dark eyes swept with creases, smiling at the sound of my name in confusion and asking the speaker honestly


Yours, in these last few words I write.


Written by

24 year old with an awful lot to say about everything. Opinions entirely my own. Usually.

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