Dearest,
This is strange, a beautiful strange...my fingers turn from numb to shivery to numb...I write to you :) Maybe it is the chill in the air, maybe it is the warmth in you...
Chhuti...how I have missed you, and how desperately I have ignored you, trying to forget you...as if one can ever choose to not listen to one's own voice...silly, that's what I have been...
But look, here you are, and here we are -- soaking in wintery afternoons of pale orange sunshine and friendly squirrel tails; listening to flights descend and trains depart and car honks add bass to the lyrical rustle of tall tree leaves. As I patiently wait for the tea steam to disappear from the spectacle lens, things clear out, you appear. The necessity of you in breathing, and being. Oh, how I missed you, loveliest!
What is this hourly bound that we are, "earning" a living? Such a lie. We don't. Whatever happened to enriching the living experience? The hours are yours, sudden and slow; the metaphors unfurl meanings and there is life in everything mundane. Negotiations with the unnecessary are absolutely and easily forgiven. You are here.
Sometimes, I have to roll back the pages of our exchanges like a family-album, reliving our journey. Sometimes, I have to take four steps backwards, to move one step ahead.
Sometimes, I have to command you, desiring you.
Yet, each time, like a favourite song, you bring the colours to my empty palette.
What would I be without you? Without writing to you?
Happy holidays love,
K.
This is strange, a beautiful strange...my fingers turn from numb to shivery to numb...I write to you :) Maybe it is the chill in the air, maybe it is the warmth in you...
Chhuti...how I have missed you, and how desperately I have ignored you, trying to forget you...as if one can ever choose to not listen to one's own voice...silly, that's what I have been...
But look, here you are, and here we are -- soaking in wintery afternoons of pale orange sunshine and friendly squirrel tails; listening to flights descend and trains depart and car honks add bass to the lyrical rustle of tall tree leaves. As I patiently wait for the tea steam to disappear from the spectacle lens, things clear out, you appear. The necessity of you in breathing, and being. Oh, how I missed you, loveliest!
What is this hourly bound that we are, "earning" a living? Such a lie. We don't. Whatever happened to enriching the living experience? The hours are yours, sudden and slow; the metaphors unfurl meanings and there is life in everything mundane. Negotiations with the unnecessary are absolutely and easily forgiven. You are here.
Sometimes, I have to roll back the pages of our exchanges like a family-album, reliving our journey. Sometimes, I have to take four steps backwards, to move one step ahead.
Sometimes, I have to command you, desiring you.
Yet, each time, like a favourite song, you bring the colours to my empty palette.
What would I be without you? Without writing to you?
Happy holidays love,
K.
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