Published by: Clarence Pasco
Date Published: April 02, 2024
Time Published: 10:26 AM
My purest thought was written on pristine paper containing hundreds of sensations I wished to express; it all began with your name. How beautiful would it be to write poetic phrases next to your initials? I was left unanswered until it was dawn. I held a pen and was about to write when I realized how grateful I am to wake up to have you.
I could be mistaken—or not—but this isn't just the art of noticing, for I know you by heart and you commit to my memory. I knew you were delighted when you wrote in cursive, allowing the tip of the pen to be partially huddled. I knew you had a rush of emotion when the ink was more than usual. I knew.
I would never forget what your letter smells like; it’s a combination of a breeze from the ocean and a subtle scent of daisy, so I sought to capture its shade, as my life has been colored.
With the tears of my pen, I’ll tell you how much I longed to see you. I bide one’s time for years and years. But I loathe to get older. I'm afraid of not being able to write to you, find words about you. The moment when I won't be able to tell you I was waiting, I’m afraid of it. I had to ask myself if all those words made you feel better and if you ever felt less forsaken after reading them.
Then a letter was returned with a familiar whiff; I am not alone, I am with you.
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