8th July, 2015
I've been meaning to write to you for a long, long time now – there's much that I've already said to you over long walks in the city and in sleepless nights by the window – but you know better than I do – or will, someday – that my thoughts are scattered and rambling and all over the place. My heart beats quicker even as I type out these words, for it seems trivial and vain and vapid – For I seem trivial and vain and vapid – at rendering physical these intangible thoughts that echo in my head each day. But there's consolation in knowing that when I meet you – if I meet you – someday, you'll know much about me I wouldn't have to reveal through broken sobs and incoherent words. You see, there are voices in my head that say that you need to know all of it, be familiar with all of my broken pieces and jagged rusty edges that snag onto your skin and leave cuts behind, pieces of me that I'm too tired to be ashamed of anymore – but there's voice inside my heart, a singular hopeful voice, that lets me know that you already know.
Dearest, I apologize for how scattered I am – if there was a way I could tread backwards and retrieve pieces of myself – my secrets and songs and sighs- and gather them so they'd only belong to you, I would. But as it is, I've waited too long for you to come home, and in the wait I skirted the abyss over and over again, letting loose fragments of myself to arbitrary hands, revelling at the raised brows and hushed voices and the sheer surprise of it all, and each time I give away a little of myself I silently compare their reactions to what I think will be the look on your face when you learn of all this yourself. Will you hold my hand and tell me it's alright? Or will you shun me for the shallow soul I am, for having given myself away far too often and having saved none of it for you? Or will you be equally broken, equally used up in your pursuit to find connection, to seek something past the initial thrill of parted lips and stunned silences?
When we meet, I'll tell you that conversations are like sex. You'll probably laugh and ask me where I read that. Or maybe you already have.
That's the sheer disaster of it all – the probability that I've already walked past you on a crowded street and that none of what I say or do anymore make any difference, that you're gone and passed or worse – belong to another – and all this endeavour will bring me is a series of letters no one will read and an ache in my heart at not having said enough. That while I need you with every fibre of my being you've already filled that void with another, because darling, I know that there's seven billion souls on this earth and I don't love myself enough to believe that I'm the only one for you. But I love you enough to believe that You're the only ne for me.
I've loved and lost before, you see – loved and lost and found again and again only to discover that there's nothing behind their eyes and their touch is cold, that their fingertips hold no allure for me and their words hold no wisdom, and it was in that moment that I realized that You exist – that you must exist – for what sense is there in having my heart and hope broken over and over if not once is it at your hands?
I await you, darling, eagerly.