I never took it seriously, before.
The urge to write and write and write about you. Like, you were the ink to my feather quill and without you—no words existed. No words would form any metaphors and phrases and rhymes that seemed to pour out of my mind endlessly. Like an ocean of letters. And you were there to help me sail each one of them.
If someone were to ask me about you, I could take a minute and describe how you sounded in a simple poetry. It was not because it was easy—it was because you had been imprinted inside my blood, running through my veins like an addiction I could not avoid. And the heroin it contained only made me crave for more, more, more.
I would write that your eyes reminded me of the galaxies in the universe—complex, beautiful, unreachable. They reminded me of the midnight sky, glinted with stars so bright it almost blind me. As if, I needed to grant your permission to stare. As if, the secret glances that I have stolen were somehow impermissible.
I would write that—wait, this has become too long for a promised, short description of you.
See? I never took it seriously, before.
As to why your name was always echoed inside my head in every heartbeat my hand carve a poetry, a poem, a story.
And I never took it seriously, before.
That the writings about you offered a better reality; a better version of how I would recite the thousands of words I have written—to you.
Because I knew that I never will.
—g.c
[ another folded letter that I keep under my pillow ]