Come to Me

I say your name, hoping it will start the flow of words I so desperately wish to put on this page. Yet once the sound has passed my lips, there is nothing. Only an empty room. I wish to tell you of my feelings, but like the last rays of the sun, you have long since gone.

I know this letter reads as a lover might write, but there is no other way to express what I would say. My heart begs to be near you again. Once, I feared it breaking if I spoke the truth. But the emptiness of silence is far worse than not having an answer.

For this reason, what I would say is a compromise of words and wishes. It’s the only way I can think to express myself. For you’ve long gone beyond the reach of my arms.

Each day, I long to see you, just for a moment. The memory of your voice stays in my mind, and I often think of our walks together. I could lie and tell you I don’t want a lover’s relationship.

But the truth is, I’ve never wanted anything more than this.

Sometimes I think of how much we didn’t know about each other. But when you were next to me, and your hand was in mine, I felt as though I’d never known anyone else. When you walked beside me, I was complete, like two parts of a circle fit together.

Perhaps I am just a romantic fool. However, I can no longer carry regret in my heart for want of speaking these words. Nor will I shy away from sharing the truth of my feelings. But you are not here. Neither am I.

My steps have carried me to strange lands, and I will see stranger ones before I find my own place in the earth. Still, I hope my words will find you. Even if I cannot.

Now I stand on the shores of a foreign beach. It ignites inspiration in me like nothing I’ve known other than being with you. Sand dances on the wind as moonlit waves crash against my feet.

I reach my hands up to catch the light, just as I once held you. But you are part of the light now, and I am not. So I whisper the words of this letter into the wind.

I hope they will be carried up to you, wherever you are. Because, though I could take bits and pieces of this place to you, I could not bring the magic. For that, you must come to me.

...

It was Dubai, sometime after Afghanistan, and her name was Amirrah. She was Egyptian, and I'd never met someone like her before. We smoked hookah in Abu Dhabi, at place near the sea. Mint and grape, mild and sweet.

They brought us Moroccan tea, which we sipped as each of us unveiled bits and pieces of the lives we'd lived. We shared dreams, and our conversation danced around desires. Yet, each of us was bound by commitments to ourselves we dared not cross.

Perhaps. If. Maybe in another time. But we were not cats, and the time was not ours. Sometimes, in quiet moments, I wonder where she is. How her life has gone. If she has children. Is she happy?

Now and then I find whispers of her in the characters I write. Perhaps, I muse, they know her better than I ever will. This is ok. It's right.

She's a pice in the wall life has encouraged me to become. And I know every stone in that wall. Each scar on the rock. Because it's me who is the mortar that holds it all together.