Something about you screams “FUTURE.” All of my piled-up concerns just get swept off to the side of the road, and my path is clear of dust and dreg. I find that my fears are slowly evaporating, and the future that I was always so tensed about no longer scares me.
It’s as if a future with you, is a future guaranteed, which is mind-boggling to say out loud because almost nothing in this world is certain, but you… you’re the anchor to my rampant ship. You steady me.
And I know, I know. It’s all in my head, and this is what happens when you catch feelings for someone, but.. heck even I can’t form decent sentences here….
I suddenly cannot write like I normally do because I don’t want to admit; I don’t want to capture this moment for eternity and yell my emotions to the public when I’m supposed to go back to keeping a diary.
But I promise you, my sentiments for you are always pure. I take a stroll down the harbor, with the sun dressed in peach, and the first thought that rushes to my head is: I wish you were here. I mean I would assume you would appreciate corny sunsets and coffee in the PM as much I do, but who knows…
Is this a letter now? Alright. Uhhh…
I promise you that I do write, and I have international readers, and… dang it. You won’t read this, would you?
I don’t know. I don’t know… Something about you makes me wishful for the tomorrow that I lost all hope for.
At the heart of spontaneous gatherings at the majlis, he is the most essential of guests. His eyes are alluring irides of hazel, as if Persian gardens and Arabian coffee harmonized to birth them. His sun-drenched, honey complexion contrasted beautifully with his white kandoora, and his neatly-trimmed beard was competing with the night’s darkness. The air smells of oud and musk upon his anticipated arrival.
He is known as the Bard of the Emirates. He would sit in the center of a high-ceiling spacious, living room that has intricate arabesque patterns on the walls. Amid the deluxe chandeliers and marble flooring, nothing beams more than the poetry he recites. Men of all ages travel eastward just to taste the tales that infiltrate nostrils with the soothing smell of desert dunes. He brings the rudimentary gracefully back to their frantic hearts one tale at a time.
It is said that his words tightly embrace his listeners’ ribcages, weaving repose with every prose. His royal presence and charisma has fathers imploring for his hand in marriage.
I had feared the day where my fingers would tap incessantly on the keyboard, admitting a faint-hearted feeling I had wished I kept to myself. But here I am, again, avowing, as a writer would, because words are smothering me.
My treasured readers, you haven’t the slightest of clue what if feels like developing feelings for a child of spring. I try to paper over this harmless craze, except dwellers took notice of me snipping and sniffing oleanders mid-autumn, in spite of their virulent toxins. My cheeks flush in primrose, baring me from every shameful secret my blushes covertly told.
Earlier today, a grasshopper attuned to my heart’s symphony and sprang atop my head, as if craving to hear me speak more of him; and I hailed its notion because my heart would not stop sprouting timid words. I had a music box for a heart.
Loving him is so chaste that every time I lied down to a siesta, my hands would only yearn for his delicate grip, and nothing more. The sound of his name buries my timidity in flowerbeds and plants lilacs in the crevices of my inky-blotched fingers.
I am reading poetry mid October and pressing morning glories in my poetry books; his flowery touch has made springtime eternal.
“Why do you write like a kid?” Maybe because I am one? When I write of love, in my book it is always as innocent as my words portray it. I express love as that old-school admiration: silent glances from afar, love postcards, and picnics on hilltops. It’s running together in sunflower fields and carving our initials on ancient oak trees.
I write what I know I will never experience; daydreams aside, by the time I fall in love, I’ll be too old for my childish wishes. I write like a kid because I don’t want to objectify my muse; I don’t want to describe his physique. In my script, he’s not tall and handsome. His face is pudgy, he wears the same clothes he wore in his 20s, and he doesn’t know how Twitter polls work.
I write like a kid because I’m tired of romance novels being too physical for my liking. I write like a pre-teen because I want you to view this life from my rainbow-tinted glasses where chivalry is not dead and love blooms in all the colors of the spectrum.
I write like a child because my entire life is a G-rated, young adult fiction, where everything is gradual, and you have to read at least a hundred pages before the characters muster the courage to kiss. Because in my world, blushes are eternal and innocence doesn’t withdraw at any age.
This whole adult world dismantles my love for the sweet, childish days where daisies are the token of a timid love between two shy humans. I write like a child because I want you to live in spring all year long, to be enveloped by April for eternity, even when I am gone.
To the Gemini muse that I’ve written to for 5 years,
You’re undoubtedly still quite the charming man, incessantly inspiring my empty head to leak words I was too shy to admit. Because of you, many have called me a writer, when both you and I know that I am far off from that noble title.
I’ve written so much to the point that I wanted my words to come alive, and not just fabricate our make-believe rendezvous. I wanted it all to be real; I wanted you here, in flesh and bones, to show everyone that this immaculate human is a kind, living, breathing thing.
I’ve dived into supernal worlds of what ifs, and you ceased to become just a writing aid; my love, I urged for you with haste, but what haste is that if it’s been five years, and not a shard of a word moved a cell in you.
Come and run your fingers through the endless pages of my pleas; oh how desperate I was, filling up journals and journals just imploring you to find me. I counted the days, ah so gullible; I’ve begged the earth to rewrite its fate for I swear you were meant for me.
Five years, you insensitive human. Five years and what they’d compliment on, thinking it’s just a heart dump is actual frantic calls, yet I would not lie, I’d still bust this spacious heart open and write until your unresponsive organ feels bad for me.
But until then, I’d like to inform you that I have found a new muse, and your services are not needed. (But God knows I would still rush into your arms lest you came).
It’s mid April, and all I’ve engulfed were whirls of autumnal winds, winds so familiar yet out of place. This is not your season, yet somehow you still manage to storm the earth, one unexpected sandstorm at a time.
My readers know it: I’ve always sworn by autumn, and its painful gush against brick walls. My darling, let me have this. Allow me this spring, colorful still. I am yet to bear your azure skies.
A waft of feeling crept into the soft hues of April. Love, is that you again? I’d honor your heavy emotions in a painstaking embrace lest it led anywhere, but we both know they’re misplaced in this case. What do those feelings serve me; nothing but a severe heartburn. For I have admired the falsehood of you; don’t we writers do that too? We’re darn good storytellers, permitting the slightest of inspiration to fool you, and fool ourselves into believing our hyperbole is close to reality. But the problem is that: the reason behind those feelings is void. I am quick to fall in love, and in this case, my muse is someone I have never seen eye to eye. Oh Love, you gave me farfetched whims over a soul I glamorized in my head. And I keep writing to him like a fool every night, thinking words can force his innocent feet here. April, what have you done to my poor soul?