the first unsent letter...

Dear P.,

You walked away, that day, thinking I would forget those moments when you had been my anchor. And the saddest thing is you really believed yourself. But, truth is, you believed this because you sorely wanted to believe it. You violently wished to be the victim, the “abandoned” one. As if being abandoned is some sort of honor or trophy to wear and flaunt.

Will we ever recapture that moment of eternity we once shared?

You know, I tried to take a photograph of your last letter to me… because, though you did not declare it, I knew it was your last. But, it was as if my camera was seized by a ghost. Every photograph I took was blurry and foggy to my eyes. Maybe, then, it was not the photographs that were blurred, but rather, perhaps it was my vision? Yes, were my vision truly as perfect as I wish it to be, there would have been no taking of photographs, in the first place. After all, what purpose does a photograph of a letter serve, when I have the true letter in my possession?

Today, as I think of you, I see you there, in that place of yours… that place beside the sea. I see you painted upon the back of my head like an emblazoned image tucked neatly inside the predictability of a fresco. I see you… though you no longer see me. What thoughts linger inside your head as you sit at your kitchen table and sip your warm flavored tea? What memories haunt your eyes by day, your lips by night, sending you into a barrage of nocturnal, slumberous dreaming and story-telling? What secrets do you tell to those who wait to listen… to hear… to learn your deepest thoughts?

And what do you make of loneliness? What do you make of its engulfing arms, winged, and cold, and ready to collapse around you?

And what, my dear, do you make of fear?

I leave you, now. I have questions of my own... begging to be answered.