My Beloved,
There have only been a few nights since I was last captivated by your presence, the intoxicating allure of that blue dress you wore and the fragile display of your spine when you disappeared from my sight. Dark blue skies taunt me as the sun is yet to set—wispy smoke clouds that can visit you when I cannot; see your beautiful smile when I cannot. Did you make it home safe? I wondered this for hours on end, until the sunrise caressed the space you once filled in my bed and morning burnt away the last fragments of you. We lost an afternoon here, where you spoke of the childhood trips to far away places and the peculiar collection of trinkets you keep above your bed at home. At moments, I can pretend to still hear your giggles echo through the thin walls of my apartment and play the blonde strands of your hair through my fingers. There is little I can do but believe you think back on these memories, and me.
The dent my violin procured while in your hands mocks me when I press my cheek to the wood—a hollow chuckle follows, just of the first time we met. The sight of pure shock on your face when the instrument stammered over the stage, it was as adorable as it was amusing, and you apologized for hours afterwards; so worried for the tool of my trade. Even up to this day, your father’s money sits in the empty bowl by my front door. I know you told me to go buy food or some new clothes with it, but what man would I be if I did? Your father acted so frivolously, tugging the fresh notes from his wallet and forcing them into my hand.
Do you still believe he would never accept my wish to court you? If I gave the money back, would he see me as more than just a penniless musician? Every time we had a few minutes to speak he tugged you out of reach, and it was if he pulled the breath right from my lungs, strangled life from my lips. We had to lie and hide, just to be able to converse over coffee. Am I a criminal for falling so madly in love with your smile? If I am, what amount of time would I have to give to be allowed to hold your hand? What collection of punishment would be enough to kiss you? I would do it all, dirty my hands and sweat the blood from my veins.
I am sorry, please do not think of me as mad. I am not angry, but engulfed with passion, with need, with want, with love. There are storms spun in my stomach, hurricanes and tornadoes contained in layers of weak flesh—it’s hard to control these lips of mine when I think of you caged and hidden in the shadows of the skyline. I hope the heavens have kept you safe, and that I have not brought harm to come to you. Please, if you manage to receive this, if the friend of mine managed to place this before you, send one back. Tell me you are safe, that you are well; that there is some hope for my heart to hold onto.
Those words you left in my ear that night you left, the ones you placed softly into the care of my lips; they are waiting, and I cradle them on my tongue on the longest nights. “I love you.” The sweetest words I’ve ever heard, and yet they haunt me like open graves. You didn’t pause long enough for me to say I love you, too. Please give me the chance to press my lips to your ear and pour my heart into you. That is all I dream about.
I love you too,
Yours truly.
(This is a collaboration with a very talented photographer Ariana. A picture is worth a thousand words, and addition of a couple hundred more from me.)
