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.

3 comments:

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.