I imagine this conversation in person; you across from me, sitting on the sofa, your legs dressed in denim stretching out to me, ending in a pair of odd socks. I would probably be smoking a cigarette, prompted by my ‘need to talk.’ Never the way to start a confession. I can confess that.
I start by reminding you of our early days, in the comfort of familiar four walls that I’m no good at this. By this I mean that necessary gray area when nothing is certain but the need to become an open book is a necessity. Where possibilities take on the life of fantasies but a hint of a fall could break you. I know this about myself, something I’ve learnt painfully and therefore I often say a swift goodbye before either of us, have the chance to say hello. We both nodded at that sentence, both acknowledging our similarities but I think quietly, we both knew, there would be more to come.
Long nights, with heavy words and short minutes shaped us; created a world that at times challenged the hue of rainbows. The stories of people neither of us would ever meet peppered our conversations with reality, stretched our minds across scars and bruises; the kind we hid too well, but showed each other effortlessly. But yet our projection of dreams danced across our pages, sounding familiar in black and white; stories that pricked our skin.
And magically we discovered the impossible, the challenge that baffled the greatest minds; we defied time. We managed to inhale it, hold it in our cheeks and release it slowly, creating the greatest high. We kept the sun in our sky until our eyes stung, until our skin craved the coolness of night and the sight of the moon only became a long exhale. It didn’t take long for our names to become an old love song; sitting next to each other, side-by-side, rubbing shoulders, living on the tip of our tongues.
But the memories of old wounds deleted words, changed characters, rearranged plots.
I would admit it was no surprise, nothing that the sweat on the palm of my hands did not tell me. New words dressed our songs; distance and closed doors entered the space we created, the not knowing of tomorrows, stood us still, dressed us in yellow.
So before tomorrow becomes today, I sit on the green rug that we laid on, typing in black and white, closing the open book, smoothing my hand along the cover;
- Closed doors hurt to walk into, even with the gentlest of steps.
I say these words easily, in black and white, where I can’t see the eyes that slay me; I write your story. And ask you to promise me that you’ll look for me. If ever you’re in a bookshop, look for me on the shelves, hopefully I’ll be there. And promise me, promise me you’ll read it, the way I taught you to read me because I’ll probably be there, saying hello.