Sometimes, the fingers dance on the keys in a ballet movement, aching to complete that which is yet to start. At such times when the rational fails to supply who the dance is for, the heart takes over. To you. I tried not writing, again. But the words seem to appear out of the wand as if nothing else could be. Hello, love.
It is now six months, half a year of writing letters. To him and to her, to this and that, to someone, some body and nobody. To the many knowns and the some unknowns. To you. And in all such letters, you have featured, either with your obvious presence, or your grand absence. Grand conspicuous absence.
As far as hope goes, well, it comes and goes! And I notice how it has taken you along. But I see that hope has not seen how you have maintained friendships with hope, and with me. Love, earlier I requested to you return, to stay. You never bothered to reply, let alone reassure. But I had to let you know my senses are heightened, and understanding deepened.
I looked for someone else, not you. And you, you never left, did you?
It takes one to love,
K.
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