To someone, to no one
September 21, 2018 § 5 Comments
Our lives are a bunch of emails never written, letters never posted, love never misunderstood because it was never said aloud.
Someday we will find our drafts and a pile of letters, and learn of what could have been, but never was.
I lived us a million times in my dreams, here and there, in countries cold and wet, in beaches bright and hot, beer in summer, whiskey in winter, mountains so high that the mid-morning light causes a glare if you don’t wear shades; our hands held together across valleys and candlelit nights, the moon a bright crescent over a never been reality; there is nowhere else to be, no other life to live, but ours in this silence, in this beauty.
Maybe you thought of us in your little nook, you scribbling away in your dairy, me reading books which I thought I understood; you watching me sleep late at night, and waking up to me making a brunch for two, while sipping fresh coffee; there’s nowhere else to be, no other life to live, but ours in this stillness, nothing but your verses, with rhyme and mystery.
How long is a lifetime? If our memories are put together will it ever be more than a day? I remember us, and nothing else. Maybe this was the lifetime I lived, and if it all was a dream, then was there ever a life, in reality?
Do words buried come back alive to reach those who they are meant for? What words do I bury, and what do I say to the emptiness, so they spread all over the universe and can never be put together again to mean anything.
There’s a blank paper, to you it shall be addressed, and it will tell you all that I ever wanted to say but left unsaid to watch you fiddle with your noodles, to hear you speak of monsters and science as adjust your hair and determine the worth of the latest innovation. Maybe you saw me in my silence and tried to guess the words I held, maybe you dreamed of all that I could be but instead chose to bore you with bi-lingual puns.
I am not gone, but here, in person and spirit, and maybe I am the letter which could tell you what you mean to me— but will you ever open me, and read?
I lay around, and stay still, maybe I will be left behind when you go far away to chase your dreams, and crumble away like a house long forgotten, memories left to rot like old furniture with only the hope of being stolen.
Maybe I am the drafts never sent, hundred of them all at the mercy of a company’s policy, to be destroyed as a point of code, indents bent and broken, the metaphorical paper shredder a button to make years disappear and leave an inbox clean and dry, for new beginning and dreams.
There are dreams, and a lifetime measured by a clock forever stuck at seven thirty. My life is a bunch of emails never written, letters never posted, love never misunderstood because it was never said aloud.