My dearest darling,
It’s been a while now. A lot of things have changed since the last time we were able to see each other. I mean, yes, I did get to see you amongst a crowded room almost a year back. Everyone saw you – they admired your lovely face and your delicate hands that sat on your sides, and because of that and the occasion, you were unable to see me in return. I’m deeply afraid to consider this as true, but my mind knows that there isn’t any other way around it – so, so pained and fragile, that the more that time passes I struggle to remember the features of you that I used to see everyday.
I tell myself that maybe I should’ve gotten a better look. I should’ve lingered a little bit longer on your cutesy nose and your long eyelashes that the falling snow would get stuck on when we went on those long walks in the cozy winters. I tell myself that maybe then, I would still see you and your flawlessness until today. If only, if only, if only I would’ve held acceptance in me that that would be the last time our paths would cross, I’d be able to retain you better. I’d still be able to imagine you, bring you up in my mind, even if you weren’t standing right in front of me.
I wish you were though. You always knew the right thing to say to me and my pessimistic or dark outlook on life – the sun to my shade, I liked to say. It was my fault that I got so immersed in that nature of yours, so incredibly attached that when you left, I didn’t and won’t ever know how to let go of it. I’ve tried to make my “missing you’s” go bitter and resentful. I try to fill them with hate so I can distance myself from the hollowness in my bones, but it hasn’t worked once. I can’t believe my own lies, and that’s why I’m here like this – a broken chaos, that can think you up dancing with a perfect skinned angel that isn’t me, or more-like, what you used to call me. A nickname I, when I gave you a hard time, would tell you doesn’t suit me.
I'm surely no angel.
My goodness, my love, could I give myself a pass this once? When I and you were an everyday thing, and when we were connected at the hip, I know you would say it’s okay, and that I in fact, should go a little bit easier on myself, but it’s hard to truly give myself that permission when I can’t hear it from your voice – when you’re still a part of me in heart.
Heal me like you used to do, please. Shush me with a finger to my lips when I complain to the night sky how insignificant the billions and billions of stars make me feel. Tell me again about how fortunate you believe we are that we have them instead, because they're a symbol of our love and how in the mightiness and strength of our big, big world, we found each other. Remind me again that you’re like the moon, because of how it would follow me between the trees on the car rides we used to take and tell me reassuringly that everything is going to be okay, and that it’s here for me always, always, always.
Calm me, even one more time. Tell me that those night owls we’d come across every once in a while aren’t worthy of my nightmares, where their heads would spin around and around and around until I’d wake myself up, but my dreams, because they’re an epitome of elegance and of grace. Tell me in that reassuring voice of yours that I can be like that owl. Wise, and the bigger person, capable of seeing the proper point of view.
It’s 2:52 a.m, and I need your help. The pitch black isn’t it treating me as kindly as it did when you were with me. I want to be okay with this, because parts of me want to reserve the evenings for you. You’re deserving of it after all, since you were the one who conquered them, but I feel small beneath the stars and I feel squashed beneath the moon. The owl's hoots make me feel lonely and insecure, and you’re not around to help me laugh it off, to trudge forward with the bravery you helped me to win over in this land of fear.
So let me say it directly. Come back to life. Breathe again. Erase that cluttered funeral from my memory and convince me that it never happened.
I miss you.
-Yours. Still yours. Forever yours.
About the Creator
Shyne Kamahalan
writing attempt-er + mystery/thriller enthusiast
that pretty much sums up my entire life
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It
“It is what you want it to be.” I’ve repeated the words to myself countless times. Infinite, infinite, infinite. They were words from my father; probably words from everyone’s father, or their mother, their sister, their brother, their teacher, their co-worker –blah, blah, blah– they’re pretty common words majority of us beings have likely heard one place or another, but sometimes I can’t help to wonder. Wonder what exactly that means, what exactly I want it to be anyway, whatever it is.
By Shyne Kamahalan2 years ago in Fiction
Bedtime story 1
Once upon a time, in a lush green jungle, there lived a wise old scapegoat named Gruff. Gruff was known far and wide for his wisdom and kindness. He'd lived under the shade of a magnific mango tree for as long as he could flash back . This mango tree was no ordinary tree; it was the oldest and grandest tree in the entire jungle, its branches reaching grandly into the sky, laden with juicy mangoes. Every evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Gruff would gather all the youthful creatures of the jungle around the mango tree, and under its soothing shade, he'd tell them stories of the jungle's history, its secrets, and the significance of living in harmony with nature. One particular evening, as Gruff began his liar, he noticed a dimmed look on the faces of the youthful creatures. seeing their apprehension, he asked what was troubling them. A little rabbit spoke up," Oh wise Gruff, our cherished mango tree isn't bearing fruit as it used to. We sweat it's growing weak." Gruff jounced courteously, his long beard swaying gently in the evening breath." Fear not, youthful bones
By vinoth kumara day ago in Fiction
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