Unknown

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.

She dreamt of a stranger, his fractional smile a mere flicker before he disappeared over the building’s edge.

This wakes her up, filling her with irrational tension. A haunting peculiar for it is a place never seen before, with a faint touch of the ethereal.

Who are you, she quietly asks with an arm outstretched, but her words are simply mixing with oxygen.

Weeks go by, and it remains a sequence that slips in uninvited from time to time. The same wakefulness will capture her utmost attention, but there is no clue. Until one day, in the most ordinary of ways, she sees him in a street full of people. And mad is she, certainly, to have glimpsed a cordial curl of the mouth?

His gaze averts, and she pursues. Though foolish to endure without reason, she will not be deterred. They arrive on the rooftop, a scene startling alike. His foot leaning by the end of all that is.

She walks slowly, terribly afraid to see that moment. When she is but two steps away, his voice breaks.

Do you trust me? are the words uttered.

Take a deep breath. Nod of the head.

Close your eyes, he murmurs with a faint smile, and she does.

Hands curve themselves and then, the lightness of being. A scream. They are falling into gravity’s coarse arms. There is no comfort in the aforementioned thought.

He whispers against her ear, believe.

And believe, believe in facing the unknown courageously and this is when they fly upwards by the spread of his wings. Her eyes widen.

You’ve always been too afraid to face the end of your dream, he says with a gentle smile. And now you finally know.

I’m not used to saying this aloud. I have a tendency to clam up and say nothing for a while. Sometimes, I find myself watching from a glass coffin, so forgive me if you try to reach in and return empty.

I’m not used to an unwavering command of attention. Too many times when I finally formulate the words I want to speak, it’s an empty street.

I’m not used to the fact that a pair of feet remain by me, even when I have a tendency to stutter, or hide nervousness in the intricate folds of an origami crane.

I’m not used to the idea that a person would wait in unbroken silence just so that I can whisper a single passing remark, catch ephemeral laughter in the fleeting wind.

I’m not used to making this confession, but I must admit that there is a permafrost in my heart that hurts, that I fear letting it thaw. To be warm is unusual and unusual is the unknowable. Both extremes scare me, the warm and the cold, let alone braving along this spectrum.

I’m not used to considering that I might choose to change, not only for you, but for myself. Yet one day I’ll lift my chin. Take a full account of the world above with confidence. And if you’re still here, be pleasantly and timely warned that this is uncharted territory—

I’ll look at you in the eyes.