A Romantic Vision

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The first time in two years Awan's book came with not a note but a letter. It frightened me as I hurriedly opened the paper and screened the most beautiful handwriting, cursive, black ink, smells fresh and the yellow crisp paper restricted with dips and drops tell me they were written with ink dissolved in tears.

I moved to the other room, the kids still urging Timur to narrate a tale, he like all times refusing, but today their request was obstinate and I stood in the kitchen, the fading sounds of their cries and I opened the letter...

Dearest Miss,

You never write back and I must admit it is weary of you. I have apologized but I still would adhere you were rude...but right...like always I suppose.

These evenings without you are like watching the sky without stars, how do you get used to so much darkness miss?
I abject my own self, I loathe this tyranny, I feel almost dead most days and then angry, you were poetry to my life, Miss.
It would stay the greatest regret of my life, a sin so grave and malicious that I won't speak of it...but it is of no contradiction now...? I loved you and left you for money and you loved me and left me for another man, I do not know who is more wrong, you or I?
I will apologize for these letters having more questions than sentences, but you know life has been more so.

Even though I know you would flinch and cry perhaps even hide this letter from Timur, somehow this would give me satisfaction that something between us is still worth secrecy. I sound like a mad man, I am sure of have turned into one, when you live with animals you become one of them.

I am tired, Miss.....

Is it possible to revert time, I think it is useless to have these thoughts but they still preoccupy my entire nights.

I am jealous you do not have time to respond to the notes, whenever I think about you with the English boy I grow double with Envy but he has everything and I have nothing I remind myself and then reduce to less than half, Miss he has your heart and that has left deep cut wounds in me from the very day you confessed about him in the field.

My father told me: do not love a woman Awan...but then how would you know you've once lived. I cry when his words strike me, also I cry almost all day... I have become a little like you without you...isn't that funny?

Oh, I miss you...

If you still do not respond to this letter, do not think I would stop writing because now it is that I have started to write...

Your most beloved,
Awan.