15 July 2007

Love Letters

I remember you. I think about you often. I miss you. I loved you. I try to find your name and see what you're up to. I check newspapers from your city. I still think you'll be famous some day. I look to see if you've written a book, or started your own business. I saw you started a support group. When I was at the airport in your city, I wondered if I would see you. I stared at everyone. I watched everyone, looking for clues of you. I saw someone with your haircut, someone with your hands, another with your smile. Someone had your eyes -- I could tell by the brightness and curiosity of them.

I want you to find me. I don't know if I'd want to talk with you -- it might ruin it. But to know you found me, watched me, observed me -- that makes me happy. I don't think we could talk now, but we could watch each other. We wouldn't speak, just use our eyes, and the shapes of our mouths -- but not voice. Maybe I'd write something on paper for you -- like this. And I'd hand it to you as you walked by in the airport. We wouldn't say goodbye, just as we didn't say so before.


Anonymous said...

I've been reading your posts for some time now. I thought you had forgotten about me. If I'd known you still searched for my hands, my eyes, my looks, I would have inquired about your travel plans. I would have persuaded you to visit, to search for me. I would have shown myself.

Hugo Minor said...

I love you too.

Alpha said...

Maybe it's the white monkey.