You have rendered endless stacks of paper writing letters for me. It was never a question of whether there was an occasion or not, you just did. You’ve got such a beautiful handwriting and reading through them reminds me of how careful you are with words as if you treat them as your knives and I am your hands, slowly, together we avoid getting cuts.
But when that day comes where there seem to be no more sheets of paper left. Where your days will no longer consist of waiting for the mailman because you could only send so much letters in space. I would follow through and send back letters to you.
And though I’m not much of a writer, I will still try to respond to all of them as if we’re living in the past and this is the only way we could communicate our feelings towards each other. Mind that I will be extra careful with my use of punctuation because it is crucial that you’d get mix messages in return. Remember that I will always address you as “My dearest,” and I could always be your “Love,” in the end.
You have spent most of your free time typing from your computer screen making poems about me. I didn’t quite understand why you constantly loved me as your subject, it was better not to ask. Reciting each of them felt like that time I aced my exam in history class way back fifth grade. Histories, you’ve studied and learned so much about me that you could write my biography.
But when that day comes where you can no longer compose anything. Where your days will no longer be filled with metaphors floating endlessly through your brain to your mouth. I would follow through and create poems for you.
And though I’m not much of a poet, I will still try to confess all the secrets we’re afraid to speak off whenever we stare at each other soundlessly. All the stories behind your scars I’ve seen and touched whenever our bodies collide. The dreams and nightmares that visit you at night as I gently catch you fall fast asleep. I want you to know that I, too, understood everything that goes under your skin.
You have used loads of your paints and brushes illustrating pieces and parts of me. It was the first time I saw you touch colors, what I meant was there were different pigments and hues besides black and white and gray. You have no idea how much I adore seeing you wearing that stained white shirt. You are a lovely piece of art and I could say I’m fortunate you’ve let me in your exhibit.
But when that day comes where you’ve already ran out of materials to use. Where your days will no longer be filled with scratches and mistakes. I would follow through and draw sketches of you.
And though I’m not much of an artist, I will still try to do a project that revolves around you. Just let me dig deeper into your eyes I could almost see your fears. Just let me kiss your lips a little bit longer I could almost taste broken promises, truths and lies. Just let me hold your hands and hips a little bit tighter I could almost feel how fragile of a person you are.
My love, you’ve already written and drawn my entirety you forgot about yours. You are worth being part of this narrative. And this time I want you to trust me and hand me all the remains. Let me help you rebuild a museum that was once you call your own. I am just a visitor after all.