Dearest,
'April is the cruelest month' poetry-readers have gone on to approve and over-use. April is ending here. Technically, in a matter of couple of hours. But the cruelty, I believe, would persist. The scorching, sweltering, sweaty sunshine, sucking in selfishly the precious resource of whatever little momentum we have in the name of energy -- this is not when I think of you. Only, that is. I think of you most of the time. But this time around, April has brought called for your attention in a more demanding manner.
You are hardly here. In fact, your absence is so unbearable, that I am afraid, longing is no longer pleasant. The hours of the days are long and unwanted, the nights seem unending and, to top it, the evenings mask your announcement, which inevitably reveals itself as a lie. Where are you, when you are much awaited here? Do you ask for prayers? Do you need me to beg? Do you want me to sing in my rather uneven voice? What would yield a visit from you?
We have never much paid any attention to the month of May, always knowing that we will escape it somehow. The preparation is enough to sustain the criminal heat. But this time I look up to May as the metaphor of Hope. That you may happen. That you may arrive. And when you do, you may stay. If only I could rename May as Will. No amount of will, unfortunately, is able to do that.
And thus I return to the letter. Please. Just please. Without you, I cannot even. Just cannot even. You know the rest, don't you? What good does it do to your already towering ego that it needs me to yearn for you? Why cannot you love me back, for once? Without a planned visit, a surprise shower?
I have always loved you, Rain. I will.
Come,
K.
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