This night finds me alone much like the night you’d found me. You were colourful, like a random streak of vibrancy in a world of black and white. Texture in a sheet of bland normalcy that accustomed me to a world of only smooth slate with razor-sharp edges that could cut you. You were laughter, innocence, corruption, light in the darkness. Substantial conversation and yet weighty stares under baited breaths submerged in silence. Lustful glances with not a word dispersed.
Our hands both clutched in fear, doubting Thomases we were, and yet that night found us groping into the heavens, eyes suspended to the empty skies in search of our God long lost. And we, having not done so with true hearts in years, prayed that night. Just you and I. We prayed for loved ones we wished not to lose too suddenly.
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We prayed for each other. But since then, this memory of you has played out in my mind ever since, and I shall always remember you this way, as the glow of the moon pierced through our windows and fallen on your profile. My breath caught in my throat then, the fear of God roused in me. I would’ve sworn I had an angel with me then. An angel I held hands with, within a memory trapped in our shared conversations. How your eyes illuminated and glowed! You told me then not to fear, not to be sorry, just to trust.
And so, I did and so I shall. I shall trust that our meeting was not by mere coincidence, but yes, perhaps that which I never believed in until now: fate. Oft have I told myself I wouldn’t write of you again and yet I have. I can’t stop myself, not any more than I can stop myself from breathing. And so, I shall break my heathen ways. This lonely night, I find myself a believer again. I shall pray. But I shall pray for you. I shall pray that I don’t lose you too suddenly, that God keep you in safe hands, that you may have every happiness accessible to humanity.
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Perhaps you may even experience that which transcends our mortal pleasures for one fleeting moment by the one who keeps you warm at night. I have silently accepted I may never. Never have I tasted that of angels. The most I have ever experienced was to have held hands with one for one moment in time, suspended in memory, a memory that partially exists and partially does not. If I were to tell you how I think of you, what I think of you, you’d be frightened.
So, I only write them here, hoping they fall only on unfeeling ears and eyes unintended for them. But it is better that these words live but seconds in a stranger’s mind than to have never lived at all. But know this, if you are ever to find them, they were intentioned for you, only you. In the words of Saint Bridget of Sweden, “Att skriva bra och att tala bra är bara fåfänga om man inte lever bra.” – To write well and to speak well is mere vanity if one does not live well.
So, as well expressed as my letters have been, I did not have the courage with this mortal beating muscle to tell you the things I wished to say and not to discover if you indeed felt some remnant of these feelings too. And so, I shall, my love, die a coward. A coward with beautiful words unsaid.
Categories: Thoughts Unedited