Dead yesterdays.

I love reading old letters. I don't know how many times I've said that here, but I just do. I find letter to be too precious. They're like virtual records of personal conversations.

They're tangible and they're prints of pieces of the other person's heart and mind. It's visible, unlike spoken words that clings on to sultry breezes too easily and eagerly. They can be clutched close to one's heart, literally. They age, like us and if kept in care, gracefully, too.

Now, I'm wondering how a heart could change so soon, even before stains could start to creep their way on to the corners of these pages, after promising me forever. They used to comfort me. Reading them made me feel understood and valued.

I really believed that you did. I still don't know what went wrong.

Your words are poison. Your letters, toxic. Slowly, I am shaking you off. One little step at a time.