In This Unopened Letter, I

 “Church had always been like a field of poppies, one day it would wake mid-bloom and tell the Sun to move on. In the nab of thunder, nimble clouds would swarm in the sky, in little islands, to call the day of rain. Soon my window sill would be full of water and days will last in slumber.” 

It is important, that in homilies, one must make haste to write of what may stray on one’s mind. This brief sensibility may have been why I had found myself to you, Iris. When you said that what makes us cry in music is when melancholy collides with specificity, at the time I had thought I understood you fully, that in all odds, we were a half of a half, that we shared the same kind of sadness. 

I remember you wearing that dress, the one I wanted at Kaash’s, I still want to know what you meant, when I had gone with you that night and we were drenched from head to toe. Had I been upset differently, would you have smiled when you said those words? Would you have brought me to a quieter place? It felt like you’ve known me for so long, in those mornings indoors, when you had been so soft, so gentle with me. It felt like summer, somewhere warm, where loneliness has gone. You have looked at me in the eyes for so many times, it was still a mystery to me, that feeling of ambiguity. I hadn’t found you yet and my heart has already broken, I’m afraid, that this has become a distant memory for keeping. Would you laugh at me now, when I keep little parts of you in my words. Finding you in people, they always leave something like you, feeling like you. In nights where I had been drowning in my sleep, your name still was laying on my bed, in that empty space, I was cold. I didn’t forget, when we watched Beethoven’s movie, in that beaten janitor’s room, where you cried when she read his letter, I wish I had been crying too. Maybe then I would’ve understood you better. 

Do you remember me, in that white dress you asked me to wear, in that spring where we nearly drowned? Did you feel it too? That stillness, silence, the frogs may have croaked somewhere else, because it had only been you, in that field of green, it had your eyes echoing louder, creeping from skin to skin, the ground was softer that time, our feet had felt so happy, we had danced around, in freedom we danced just a little bit more free, feeling more free for what we are inside these shells. I would’ve said yes if you had asked, I had seen the ring you’ve been keeping in your pocket, were you just as afraid as I had been so? We’ve overestimated love, in our intriguing insistence of friendship. As you were breathing heavily, clutching your shirt, in the edge of death your eyes were wider, and pale, like your hands, and veins that stuck out full of rushing blood. I thought of you less then, when you’ve become afraid of the end. Like jet black in white linen, you were flat on the patio reading a senseless book, moments where you have become the ocean. Your hair was braiding into tiny waves close to shore, like of those coming clear to the sand, it sat and for when it took time, it leaves to become nothing but water. 

Like of you, like of me, we are becoming like the water.