Dear One,
I've learned to take sleep as it comes and never resist the sleepy eyes that stay open from fear of ending an imperfect day. So in the quiet hours of the night when the day is gone and everyone else sleeps peacefully, I lay awake writing words in my head to give my heart a voice. I slowly and remorsefully review the words of Tennyson and Butler and diverge every expression of “love lost” and “unrequited love.” Now, I am grateful for the night because without the revealing light of day I am able to release the pressure behind my eyes that builds with the tenderness that reminds me of my thoughts.
My heart physically hurts. Good or bad, I am pained with a unrelenting want to hear you, see you, and breath the same air. My heart quivers and pains and my face becomes flush as a heat of uncomfortable annoyance comes over me. I leave the world for a moment and watch myself as an observer only. I see myself loose grip of any hope to connect as the vengeful beat of every love song drums on. The lyrical battalion of blame, fault, and hurt lay within the melody of this melting possession. With each measure my teeth grind out an even smile and my eyes fight to stay dry and emotionless as the notes fall slowly and arbitrarily to the floor. On the floor, alone, each loose their beautiful tone once accompanied by a beautiful harmony.
In a day when the clouds broke into the shape of a perfect heart letting the sunlight warm my lonely soul, I was at last in the presence of hope. But now so suddenly I am banished back to the chambers where the clouds linger waiting to drop their acidic rain on my ever-weak skin. Shrinking into my own grief, I pull the covers over my head and listen to the pitter patter of the rain as it hits the expensive thread-count of a man who once stood tall and confident through the rain’s repetitive beating. I remember when it rained. Must it rain again? This time, may I perish with the rain?
Forty Four times four,
Alex
