i miss you
my hands miss clasping your hand,
fingers miss being entwined with yours
my arms miss being around you,
my shoulder misses yours
my thighs miss yours in between them
my skin misses the warmth of yours,
my lips are missing yours
i am missing you.
i miss you
it was a cold morning when you left. i remember because it was raining really hard the night before. there were no goodbyes but just a gentle brush of your hand against mine. the last touch. that was ages ago. the room had become darker as the days passed but each day i still wait for you to come back. sometimes i would sit by the window and look for your face among the multitudes that pass by and i would just close the panes after the sun has set.
but now i grow tired of sitting and looking out the window. the faces have become blurs in time. the room has gone much darker and i tire.
i feel myself starting to leave.
i shall write about you. about your perfect flaws, your adorable little idiosyncrasies, about your mood swings. i shall pen our conversations, our fights and our tenderness, all written down. ink on paper.
and when it is time i shall put flames to these pages, unread. and send them home to you.
[pens are parker urban matte black and a prototype sonic screwdriver pretending to be a pen.]
secrets come out at night exchanged by people who hardly see each other but know one another. secrets exchanged in confidence and never questioned. just accepted in silence and hopefully understood. i like these secrets that reveal a little of a person’s soul. it takes a lot to show someone else even a small part of one’s real self and its such a relief that in those rare times one doesn’t have to bleed for it.
I got lost. I was looking for you and I got lost. I was looking for your reflections, even for your shadows during dusk. And I thought I saw a glimmer of your light and so I followed it through the shades and streets. I got carried away by the music and the waters and the clouds covered the beacon stars and I got lost. Then, waking to a dream, I saw you with your squinty eyes and mischievous smile, and you led me back.
I didn’t want to wake up.
She walks in with a deeply thoughtful face like she was carrying half of the world’s pains and sadness. She sits at the far end of the table, closes her eyes and gives a long sigh. She opens her eyes just as the waitress is placing a cold glass of water in front of her. She tries to stare down the glass like some pet. She finally notices me staring. She offers a faint smile of acknowledgement and brings out a familiar book — The Melancholy Death of Oyster Boy.
I have the same book in my backpack.
The heart skips a beat and I take a quick deep breath. She notices me looking at her book and slightly raises her eyebrows in question. I take out my well-worn and dog-eared copy of the book and show it to her. She flashes a wide and surprised smile. She looks at me. From across the table I see can her attempting to read me. I look back, matching her stare. Black eyes. Wide eyes. Beautiful eyes.
She finally looks away and stares back at her glass of water. She gives out a sigh that sounded like infinite relief. She closes her eyes, relaxes her shoulders, and slowly sits back in her chair. I keep staring at her closed eyes. At her. I finally notice my heart racing like tomorrow will never come.
I was still looking at her when she opens her eyes and looks at me with tenderness like I’ve never known tenderness before. Then the tenderness is slowly replaced by sadness. She closed her eyes once more, gathered her things and stood up to leave. She walks slowly towards my side of the table and stops in front of me . With a wane smile she reaches out to my arm and give it a soft squeeze that felt infinitely familiar.
I belatedly notice the gold band around her finger as I watch the love of this life reluctantly walk out the door.
[ written at The Curator, 26 June 2015 ]
Words float across the table. Kind words rarely harsh words. Stories of the moment, of forever, of now. The stories change and grow and evolve over time. With fingers entwined across the table sending words of tenderness, telling stories of affection. There are also words of quiet comfort, silent words of familiarity. And then there is this. Lost words. Silent tales. Conversations we will never have. Hidden across the table are our lost conversations.
Photo from March 2015