Had I been someone else, we would not have loved. Had I known moments too soon, we would not have met. You held me with your silence, as I found myself captivated in the curves of your face and the sound of your voice. Our gazes would hold for seconds longer than the last. Each moment was special to us because we knew it would soon be gone. We shared laughter that I will long to hear for the rest of my days. And now, we are like two feathers in the wind, hoping only to, one day, land in the same place.
Where are those serendipitous moments we had atop glorious mountains and fantastical terrazzas, that have only ever been found in old storybooks and abstract art? They have long been gone, but our souls remain there still, laughing upon silly subjects while gratefully drinking cheap wine. We walked down those steep cobblestone paths as the sun set on a cliff; behaving as if the world was our own and belonged to no one else. Was it selfish? Yes. Was it childish? Absolutely. But to be childish and selfish would be our greatest aspiration in a world where people are forever without themselves.
I wrote you yesterday; what seemed like something I wished was prose. It was, in fact, a secret love letter of longing. We long for something we have yet to know and we hope for something we cannot even begin to imagine. We’ve exchanged the words that two people are meant to say when they are apart and we have often spent time wondering about finding each other again.
And if our paths were ever to find their way back to where we were once before, at a time when fortune favors the weary, our souls will be unchanged, though we may look and act in different ways.
I will, for now, leave anticipatory letters in your mailbox, like a schoolgirl with an unbroken heart, hoping only for the slightest response. I will listen to the vibrant sound of my own daydreams, and when they have all faded and I have tired, I will still think of you, admiring your charm and wit from across a never-ending ocean.