2004-08-07
Like the Sunshine on My Window, I Miss You
Last night, I wrote to him at a very late hour. The topic that I had brought forth was that of Sartre�s dualism between the essence and appearance of an existent. Late at night, and I am e-mailing him once more with a philosophy discussion--like former times. It felt like the first time we kissed--a feather dancing onto the placid lake showered with the golden-vanilla moonlight. It reminds me of the serenity and depth of your glacier-blue eyes, constantly leveling me. And if I could but hand you one piece of beauty, I would hand you the melody of Moonlight Sonata in a crystal globule.
He wrote back, of course, and for the first time since we broke up I once more felt the same tenderness we once had when together. In fact, I have feeling this way for quite some time now. Finding myself smiling at this e-mail in which he was using me as an example, I delighted in the fact that one person could know me so well. I also told him that every Chopin piece that I listen to reminds me of him, especially �Tristresse�.
Of course, the thing that I would most like to do is throw my arms around him and touch his lips tenderly as I used to, or kiss his forehead and confess how much I miss him. Say how much these dragging summer days remind me of him. Yet, I control myself. But when he begins to say how wonderful I am, and begins to meticulously describe me like no other person would, how can I not help but smile?
I think that summer days are far more haunting than rainy days. As I walk past bookstores and restaurants, I sometimes clench my left hand without completely balling it up, to pretend that I can still feel his. Sometimes, I find myself looking up, hoping to meet his eyes; yet, I find nothing save treetops, clouds, or lampposts. I receive warm stares from others who aren�t you--usurpers, and with Moonlight Sonata�s ghostly echo in the catacombs of my mind, I witness the heat waves of summer form mirages of you and I.
Sitting down, waiting for my photographer to call my name, a young man of about my age came in the shop. The resemblance was so striking---the same blonde hair, those piercing blue eyes, that perfectly carved face. Like an enthralled idiot, I stole glances at him as he did me. Perhaps he thought that I was immediately developing a fondness for him, but I wasn�t marveling at him, exactly. I wanted to pretend that that one whom I truly care for was right in front of me. The resemblance was really quite striking. I�m dying to know what your hand feels like again, or what your lips feel like.
When tired, I would gently lay my head down on your lap, and sleep as you ran your hands through a sea of wavy, raven-black hair, or do you not recall? One morning, whilst I rested my head on your chest, my ears could not help but catch the soft palpations of your heart, it sounded like the beginning to �Murmures de la Seine�, and perhaps you were asleep and failed to notice, but before closing my eyes once more, I gently brought my lips to the spot where your heart beat, gently kissing it.
I would wait one thousand years to re-live that particular moment.