Dear Someone,
You are not one person. Yet, in a way, you feel like one. You are every person that I have ever loved. You are the beauty of friendship and the peace that comes with kindness. You are a terrible, wonderful pain that comes with separation. Yet, you are also the hope that is the harbinger of the future. You are the inbetween.
If I could sum you up in a word, it would, honestly, be love. Although, you can only be love by the sum of your parts, because I feel as if not one of your parts has been significant enough to fill the word with meaning. Love, therefore, is to me as an elaborate dream exists. I feel it, I lust for it, yet I have nothing to hold; no sand or clay to pinch between wanting fingers.
You are the smell of autumn. Your perfume lingers on the boundaries of my memory, excited occasionally by the fallen leaves or the prickling of the cold, whenever it should pass me by. I remember how I associate you with the remaining rays of sunshine, warmth that would press tightly against my white skin, yet somehow the memory always ends with the cold. The days grew short, the rain saturated my worn shoes. I felt nothing from you except a recurring message… think of the joy that you feel when I appear, hope for me when you walk down the lane. Yet, like the musk of fall, you would only appear seasonably. I could not sustain myself on a passing breeze, no matter how enchanting or magical. It has been almost a year and I can’t remember your scent.
You are a footprint in the sand. I remember the feeling, the refreshing cool of the water between the smallest particles of earth as they sunk and swam about my toes, creating the perfect impression and fit around the arches and outlines of my anatomy. I sometimes wonder if the print is as perfect as I remember, but when I try to touch my foot to the mold it is imperfect. Time has warped the space that I once created. Waves have destroyed the path that I walked. Many of my footprints I can no longer see. Others I try in vain to recreate, as the tide rises towards my ankles, and I find that I have returned too late in the day. You are something that I yearn to see again, but cannot. You are too deep underwater and I must move farther up the shore.
You are a beautiful white flower that blooms only in the springtime. By the time that I found you on the tree in my front yard, you were already in full bloom. Your beauty astounds me, even now as I think of you in the middle of the summer, but I missed you bud and I missed you open and blossom. I could only watch as you stood, shining in your final hour in the sun, and cradle you as you fell from the tree on which you bloomed. I could only think of you fondly as you returned to the earth. When it is Spring again, surely there will be more white flowers in my yard, but you are an original creation and no other flowers will be you.
You are a floating seed on the wind. You are captivating. You charm me, but you are irratic. Often I have reached out, hoping to hold you in my hands, but by the time that I notice you, you have already floated well beyond my reach. Often I forget about you until that enchanted moment that you float across my path once more. I am spellbound, inclined to follow you. No matter how far your journeys I am convinced that I will be able to meet you whenever you rest. I am foolish, and you make me silly. My arms become clumsy and cannot embrace you. I lack the grace necessary to capture you, but sometimes I find myself sitting and waiting, hoping that someday you might fall from the wind and land in the palm of my hand, instead of the palm of someone else’s
You are a dream.
You were
Someday is.
Faithfully,
a girl.
