Your heart is ever so warm, like a woolly blanket I want to wrap myself in on a cold night.
If memory is flexible, this is what it should remember:
The cold frigid air of midnight
Lightning broken and thundering drum
Cosy steamboat and unrestrained laughs
Shot in the dark, silver tail of the sky.
Not only these, but
Conversations leading to undiscovered roads
Upturned shoes of sleepiness
Eternal rounds of strawberries
Strangers then, now siblings in Christ.
Dear memory, please don’t become undone.
Am I allowed to be shaken by sorrow?
Is there a set time to feel as though the sun will never shine as bright again, yet to know deeply that it is a doltish lie? Speak to the moon and stars, realise the distance between that will not close.
For how long am I to miss a stranger, one who will remain forever twenty. This one, the one who crept into my mind and this is where you will stay. As you are not unwelcomed I no longer know where to stand in this room. Hours in this place alone.
They say that hearing the name is important, and this I believe. Turn to the direction of this melody. Mere monosyllable to paint a smiling pain, avert sight to the tarmac spilled across the dim walkway. Shapes that change in the night.
I am grieving from within, and while it hurts to know the many more steps I’ll take compared to he, I will look still to the boy who left a mark.
And this is how I will love you. Where I cannot go, I will trust in you.
“I know how much you love books, but there’s no greater book than the Bible.”
— A note from the loving friend, who continues by saying I haven’t read the book (contains a collection of Bible verses that are about peace) but I hope it would be a form of encouragement for the days to come
I’m fascinated by a ghost.
Real as real can be. Even so, sometimes I catch myself wondering if he exists. Poetic musings and untimely vanishings, ethereal like the place he once dwelt.
Why do I think of him, despite unreliable appearances?
Perhaps it’s the utterance of I love you on the first meet, when we were hardly acquainted. Even he found himself taken aback, as though it was something strange and uncalled for. In the context of a card game, a deck shifted over and yours truly took the leave for the night.
Remember even more the impromptu lunch together, when I ran up to him to say hey. Mildly shy, with a smile almost and not quite, partake a meal together we did. The crumbs of a cake that fell.
While our intentions to meet again never materialised, I know the best gift bestowed. My ghost, he writes a birthday wish detailed and sweet. As one who became synonymous to air, his hand reaching out through this digital space is nothing to dismiss.
Ghostly friend of mine. Where you go, be the thoughtful being you are.
You say, that for a person so magical surely shooting stars would work their wishes for me.
I deny this a hundred times, yet I will embrace it as a truth if it will bring you back to me. This is what you do: without waiting to test the truth of my apparent character, you vanish into smokeless vapour.
Time drifts. I have taken dozens of dandelions by its roots and lain awake for 11:11s but you remain obscure to me. The sound of my breathing is too claustrophobic in this quiet.
Before you took to your leaving, I have expressed my affections: that to me you are a glowing ember, that I drew ever so closely to your brilliant being. You only smile and hope to be so, but tell me over and over to be realistic lest I am disappointed. I wonder now if I have piled upon your shoulders a burden overwhelming, that my feelings a net tangling the feet.
A lighthouse, this is what I will build as I wait for you. If I am to you a light, I will make this stand on a ground where the oceans of many meet. Day by day will I see myself on the edge, writing letters and throwing bottles of hope into the gulf.
If I am to wish a wish come true, let it be that one will come by your line of sight. Small as it is, may it rock your boat and set a wind in your sail to the shore where I stay.
You are a sailor, lost in your distant wandering and let my pieces be the north star that guides you home.
So much power in the act of writing, or so I choose to place my faith in. I have written letters for people with no faces and no names, crafting pieces for an unknown recipient. I do not think that I am foolish for trying something unreturned, for who knows if in these secret doings will someone find reason to hope again?
Leave a scattering on the car window, pages of old, table worn and other possible places. Run like the wind, don’t get caught or the magic spell may find itself undone.
In my timid heart I do fear that I may be playing with fire, but I will continue building and see if there is more than this fragile house of cards.
And even in your great unknowing, you were already a light to me.