Beloved,
I miss you. This emotion, it's so intense it's terrible. The days and nights are colder now but particularly because they're empty. It almost feels like the cyberian breeze is dancing to the frosty tune the season fiddles and my heart more than ever, longs for the warmth your embrace could only afford. The rain constantly pours, washing my window panes perpetually but that's as far as they could go. I hope they can wash your memory from my heart.
Where has time taken you now? Have you found another? Has your fluttering lips found another anxious bud, seemingly sweet? Has your thoughts found another bosom to rest upon? Has your heart started beating on a new song? Where are you? I close my eyes and I still see you but you are fringed by dark mists and I cannot see where you are. As I caress your face with my longing, I see that you are not even looking my way. It pains me to know that you sense me but decide to ignore me, pretend to glance almost my way but not really reaching me.
Are you happy? Are you warm? I wish I have any other way to talk to you, to tell you what I really want to say, to hear your voice or just to hear you breathe.
Every new year marks another notch to the number of years that I have been loving you, continually holding out my torch for you. After all these months of searing paranoia of silence, after so many songs lost in the wind, fantasies woven into the tapestry of dreams, finally you turn to look at me, but decided to not really see me. Why?
I wish you'd stop asking me why I love you and then ask me not to. I wish you'd stop asking me to bare you my soul and tell me you have to stay away. I wish you'd stop telling me I'm the music of your heart then walk away singing an entirely different tune. I wish you'd stop asking to hold my hand only to say goodbye. I wish you'd stop asking me to read the poems I've written for you only to dance around me and pretend not to hear everytime I say I love you. I wish you'd stop looking at me and start seeing me. I wish you'd stop telling me your shirt still smells of me when all these times, you know I've been blindly groping for a shoulder to hold my head when I feel I need to be with you and I'm not; which is all the time.
I don't know what went wrong. Do you still think of me? Are you just busy even on holidays inspired by and for love or do we just have different meanings for the word forever? I religiously read your last letter, memorizing every word, burying them in my heart, hoping they would take the place you've left and warm me where your arms have failed to embrace. Do you still dream about me? Do you still hope to dream about me?
If only words can immortalize emotions.
*the author wishes to express that her intentions for baring such personal epistle is solely for art and art alone. She no longer posses these heartaches nor does she chase after these lost dreams anymore.
