Pen pals

Is it wrong for me to bother you with my letters?

I'm mad at the ink we spilled over our words, such fuzzy stained thoughts, I'm unable to decipher the meaning behind.

So I'm left mad, I'm left stupid, I'm left blind 

I burst with the black sea rage just to protect myself from what used to be my shield before, a paper castle damped to the floor.

Finally, I'm left alone without my pen pal, I have other people to write to, yet they don't write like you 

Can I ask for clues?

Is it wrong if I ask you to rephrase your paragraphs?

The edge of your pen strike me down, your apology is written, yet I still have ink on my eyes, I can't see right, is it your apology even written down?.

I used to think I could see right through you, like a paper against the light. But I had ink in my eyes.

I'm reading through the letters we shared, trying to see right through and find you in them, some clue, an affirmation that there's still a cause to fight for, a missing detail I overlooked, yet I have read and wrote until my fingers are blue and tainted, smeared visions seem to last.

I'm writing letters again, trying to find what we used to share, the conversation, the connection in the communication.

Sent.

Sent.

Sent.

Why must I be the only one who sent the letters first?  I thought you would want to fix this too