365: On notes to a stranger


The first sight I had of you was unremarkable (but that’s no way to begin a love letter). I hope you don’t believe in grand beginnings, because then I have lost all hope with you. No, the first thing I noticed was the bright blue cover of the book in your hands. You were reading my favorite book. (Two important things.) And then I unraveled you for the rest of the afternoon. You were sitting along in a coffee shop on a Sunday afternoon, alternating between writing, sketching and painting. Your hair was unapologetically honest, your grey hoodie comfortable and sure. A pile of notebooks and pens lived in your bag and you offered your reasons to no one. And this is how you spend your Sunday afternoons. I feel bound to see more.


4:42 AM, and I wish I could tell them. Sometimes you lose your way, you lose a feeling, you lose a lot of things and your have to let go.

8:44 AM, and not much saner than I was at 4:42.


Would you ever dare say that the insignificant is significant? Would you be lying to yourself? Yes, there is truth in your auburn brown strands falling over your eyes. There is truth in your lowered gaze and your fair composure. But the lie is in the smiles we didn’t share, the ones that stalk me now. For in tiny repetitions you became my one resonating sound.


If you say something enough times, it loses its meaning. And when you neglect a story long enough, it slowly forgets itself. My favorite tale was whispered to me recently: one of “I love yous” and no replies, and “It’s okays” and no white lies. I thought selflessness was extinct, but it exists. It was my lullaby last night and I slept tucked in hope. It exists.


I read my thoughts from months ago and I found one light: I want someone to surprise me. Whenever I have fallen in love it was always sudden and shattering. My heart is always kidnapped, rarely won. I never earned so much a glance, but I was won. You won me, and you don’t even want me.


So close, aren’t we? You’ve never crawled closer, I’ve never cracked quicker. Wait– I’m shaken, anywhere you aren’t. Whispers, (we were almost there.)


Dampen the surface before you trust the color to find its place. And when you trust, trust as the color settles down: never to be displaced.


I don’t let people go because it’s right or necessary. I let them go because I realize they faded long ago and I was gripping ghosts and fingerprints.


I will forgive myself for loving you slowly.
So when it is time to go I will let you leave slowly.


I’m filled with a nearly physical pang of nostalgia for things long gone, things I threw away with the conviction that it was the right thing to do.

I am desperate for them now.

I am missing old colors, old words, old pictures, old patterns. Here is a list of all I have left:

* a shirt
* a drawing pad
* unresolved feelings
* a few fading memoirs
* and ghosts


So why am I here and why am I thinking of you? I will play the game of repetition with nostalgia, saying the word over and over until it no longer means anything.


I wrote you a song with the words all wrong, your reply was a thin red line drawn on the knuckles of your hands. I gave you a name I didn’t believe in, and did that mean anything to you?


Whispers, have been writing again in secret places because honesty is not for everybody. (Love’s too difficult with you. How do you know when it’s over?) Dare I conclude that there are people craving for brutal honesty?


Freddie, my Freddie. A love that dared to escort his queen out of her personal darkness, to trot around like he had fought for her all year and nothing could make him lose her now.


I know you have forgiven me. But I am my own demon.

I want to be bright and brilliant and unforgettable. But I am far too sad to be anything but dull.


Old places, I remember, ghosts.
T-shirts, bright lights, ghosts.
Kisses, smiles, you.
My ghost.


There is this song that plays and paints these tiny tiny smiles on me. It was drawn across your wall in large blue cursive, and the sound stung my veins. I have since remembered it as I remember you: with sunshine and tiny tiny smiles.


It is the living, they say, that choose to be haunted. And when they told me that I at once fell back into your collapse and could not leave. But this is the last time ever again.


I have burnt the harbor and blocked all the ports, but you still keep finding ways to leave me.


I jumped in order to forget what we all long for, and now I’m the stranger. They say you forget as you pretend, but you cling to midnights spent with songs that remind me of you. I wonder how long it takes to remember you are no longer here.


I have always shut my eyes and made you up beside me when nothing else could work.


You are my bright lights, my meteor, my music, my poem. I won’t tell you so you’ll never have to forget.


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