A Love Letter To Paul

Even as I sit beside you writing this, you are loud. Quite abrasive at times. There is no need to shout when I am so close to you. My voice remains steady at all times as you live in my heart when we are together or apart. I made an effort for you, as I always do. Lace skirt and tights and I cut my hair recently, did you notice? You have many other suiters, it is true, but none of them love you like I do. To them, you may be convenient as a pit stop on their way to something they desire. You know that you hold a certain novelty that others tire of. Not I, never.

Do you remember when we first met? I must have been twelve, perhaps thirteen, years of age. Your name had been called amongst the walls of my home but that did not live up to the splendour your walls own. Those first steps towards you felt like the beginning of my life. Parisian piano accompanies the sounds of fresh bread. A muted tapestry displayed over your skin from your worn years. The people you have met and lost and welcomed. Almost a decade may have passed since our first official encounter. It makes me wonder if I knew how much I would need you in my future. How you would comfort me, wipe my tears dry, feed me, sing to me. Now, I have learned to navigate your intensity. The external demand for your attention and I sit and sip black coffee. Both my heart and my drink turned dark. Stronger. Stronger, I like to think.

The world had changed, but mine remained the same. I had him beside me walking through the streets that lead to you. They were deserted, never seen a thing like it in all my living. Quiet enough to hear your own thoughts. I should have been scared. Should have understood the dim noise and lights to mean I would have something soon to grieve. That I was already grieving. But, my heart and happiness were too loud. They drowned out the sound of anxiety and it played a symphony so sweet. He was beside me, and so was she. Walking in between them with stars above our minds. How was I to know he would soon join them?

It took me some time to return to you after I had lost him. Perhaps I did not want you to see me in that state. Appearing to be walking but crawling towards another day. Unwell. I was very unwell. So, I brought company to our reunion. Clinking our coffees together in his honour. As if this was enough for me to show you that I was still strong. That I was still happy. But my coffee soon turned salty and it did many visits later. Despite my heavy heart that dragged the heels of my feet, tempting them to submerge into the ground, I made my way to you. Every week at least. You were the only one to make me feel alive when I felt like I was dying.

Look at me now. Really, look at me. Though my eyes will never rid of this gloss, my spine stands a little straighter. A lighter heart and it does not pain me to taste sweetness so much. I watch new faces emerge through your doors and I wonder if they will desert you next week or if they will fall in love with you the way I do each time I see your face. The warm light that radiates from your ceilings holding me safely for a moment while the dreary world strolls past in the distance. You may be loud and passionate, too much for some. Too much for me at times, I admit. But I will take you for all your flaws and grief. Just as you did, and just as you do, for me.