To my dearest Irene,
I sit down under the soft glow of the moon with a pen in my frail hand and your lone thoughts in my memory, and the thousands of squabbling emotions deep inside my heart. How have you been, my love? Each day of my entire existence I pray for nothing but your happiness. As for me, I am completely weak and pale, I yearn for your presence. Before I met you I never knew that the absence of a person can physically haunt one through life, but it's all I know now. If possible do bestow upon your lover the warmth of your touch and that soft enthusiasm of your mischievous smile. You might be thinking why I wrote this letter when I could simply press down the words and send it to you over a mere text and just wait for the two blue ticks. But how can just a 100-word text express these soul-wrenching feelings that I treasure for you? They can't, no they can't, even for a zillionth time, they can't. So, I sit down scribbling onto these yellow pages reminiscing about those good old days when you were right next to me. Do you remember those evening walks that we took, your fingers laced around mine, down that green path near the woods? Do you smile thinking about those dreams we shared? Do you reminisce about the time when the rain patted down over us, curving onto your soft skin and we stood there stuck in time and your deep brown eyes on mine? These moments are etched onto my heart, and on them, this lonesome lover clings on to fill the void that you have left behind.
Oh! What a fool I was. So completely enamored by your beauty yet still awestruck much not to put my raw emotions out in front of you. But no, not anymore, because, for you, my heart has turned into a conflict of emotions and my soul an epitome to your devotion and I am completely, incessantly, and chaotically in awe of you. The thousands of words in my head have ceased to exist as I sit down today, pen in hand, hell-bound to almost shout out this storm going round in me. I am just a mere scribbler, determined on spilling blood as ink, and it's upon you to read this gooey mush as however, you may please.
Oh! How can I describe this Irene, my eternal love! You have completely enchanted my being. I was always a believer that we are all mere existences determined to leave just a little speck of us behind when all of it finally ends. But not you. You walk lightly over this earth as if everything, absolutely everything amuses you. Once in a while, I would look into your curious eyes and lose myself in their depths and reemerge only to be washed off of all my senses. You are beautiful and not in a soul-wrecking way but rather one that slowly and steadily encapsulates an entire being within its grasps.
Words fail me today and definitely so because love ain't something we describe with just mere words or shout out from the top of a building or something we dance out in the middle of a mall. Love is soft brown locks falling onto one as the wind wheezes by. Love is a wrinkly nose that scrunches up every time one smiles. Love is deep brown eyes holding your gaze indefinitely. Love is small trinkets on one's ears. Love is lacey fingers fitting right into yours. Love is an intoxicating smile and for me, love in its own chaotic way has always been you. I have thought of it enough and I m sure of it now, Irene it has been you, all along, it will always be you. You are everything I have ever wished for and trust me everything I'll treasure throughout my life.
The night has started to close in, but look at this lone writer's misfortune I am left with nothing but mere words to hold infront of you in shakey palms. My love, I wont bore you further with my rookie ramblings because words indeed are beyond me, so, at last I leave it in its entirety on these verses to spare this lover of the uproar going within him:
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you directly without problems or pride:
I love you like this because I don’t know any other way to love,
except in this form in which I am not nor are you,
so close that your hand upon my chest is mine,
so close that your eyes close with my dreams.
Yours Sherlock.
Image from Pinterest.
