To the comments left in love

A strange thing has happened. New comments were left on this page of history I never visit anymore. Confessions, connections, professions of love. I am sorry I do not write anymore. I am sorry if I have left any of you hanging. Mostly, I just let days pass now, think every now again about writing, and give my heart to things and people that will never love me back. I ache like I have never ached before. I am destitute of faith or any sort of hope in a future even neighboring happiness. I've been running so long. I don't know how to stop. I am not faster than pain, there isn't a road she doesn't know or a bed in which she does not lay down with me. I stopped writing; she has spilled off the page. I stopped singing; she has filled the silences. I stopped loving; her victory is doubled.
To the one I gave the sunflower to ... I don't know who you are. I don't remember the hand that accepted that flower or the girl who looked outside herself to give it. I'm sorry. Please remind me.
To Lisa ... I am so sorry for your loss. I am sorry for the emptiness you feel. I feel it too. I hope to write you soon.
To my dear Marie... I love you very much, though my silence has not said it. Your love still reaches me. It still moves me.
I don't know what happens now. I don't have promises left that haven't been broken. Or dreams big enough to make resolves. But to the three who have reached out, know that tonight my heart looks something like it used to, my fingers find the keys easy like pianist finds scales, and my tears stream out for this goodness and mercy that I have turned blind eyes to these past years. For that I thank you. For that I would die a little more to myself and remember that living for the ones like you turns aching into alchemy.