Dearest,

It’s the first day of July, and I’ve crossed hemispheres to find myself on the underside of the year, where winter has settled over Melbourne like a wool coat, worn and warm in the right places, threadbare in others. After half a day folded in the hum of engines — plane, bus, taxi — I’ve finally unfolded here. The journey has pressed me gently into a new time zone, like a bookmark slipped between chapters.

After a shower that felt like erasing and beginning again, I find myself sitting in a corner coffee shop in Fitzroy, just fifteen minutes shy of seven on a Sunday morning.

Dawn comes differently here. Less a revelation, more a slow layering — cool light folded over rooftops, pressed gently against the backs of buildings. There’s a stillness in the air, but not silence. The city is barely stirring. The light is hesitant, as if unsure whether to rise just yet. It’s the hour claimed by bakers and lovers — the only ones with enough faith in quiet beginnings to be awake now.

It felt like a rehearsal for heaven — each gesture tender, precise, necessary. Silence wasn’t absence here; it was the music we all moved to. The clink of ceramic, the hiss of milk, the soft shuffle of a chair — everything part of a quiet choreography that asked nothing but presence.

Warmly,
Thilina

Dearest,

I wonder about you in small, quiet ways. Whether you’ve walked these same streets in Fitzroy, beneath the same soft winter light. Whether your breath mingled with mine in the morning chill, without either of us knowing. Perhaps we passed each other, unknowingly brushing past the edge of something. Perhaps we’ve sipped the same beans roasted by the same hands, hours or days apart — like a kind of communion in delay.

There’s something about this part of the city that reminds me of a painting left unsigned. The corners are softened, stories half-told. I pass terrace houses with peeling paint and tangled vines, street art that seems to bloom overnight, and cafés that hum like living rooms. It’s the kind of neighbourhood that encourages you to linger, even if you don’t know what you’re waiting for.

This morning, I find my way into a small café with fogged glass and a door that sighs when it opens. It’s the kind of place where no one rushes your order, and everyone seems to know how to wait. Here, I am just another early riser, folding into the day with care.

I sip the first coffee of the day, and it tastes like a secret I’m being let in on slowly, like how quiet Sundays should be: warm, steady, and a little contemplative. The first sip was an unwrapping time itself — slowly, gently, layer by layer. No rush. Just presence. The barista says almost nothing, and I’m grateful for it. There’s a reverence here, as if speech might startle the morning.

Warmly,
Thilina

Dearest,

It’s early — too early for declarations, but just right for noticing. There’s something about winter in this part of the world. It doesn’t announce itself with drama, only appears quietly — stitched into the breath, softened into scarves, caught in the curled steam above the rooflines.

The footpaths are still damp from the night rain, and the streetlamps have only just surrendered their glow. A few windows flicker into consciousness. Somewhere, a baker is folding dough; somewhere else, someone is crawling into bed after the kind of night that never quite ends.

I walk with hands in my coat pockets, breath a small cloud that drifts just ahead of me. The city hasn’t made up its mind yet — whether to fully wake or roll over once more. Even the birds sound unsure, their calls thin and slow, as though tuning themselves to the chill.

I pass a house with golden light pooling in the hallway — someone standing quietly in their kitchen, holding a mug, staring out. We share a glance, not quite seeing one another, but registering the shared ache of morning.

Sometimes, I think that’s all we need. To be glimpsed, even briefly, in our quietest selves.

Warmly,
Thilina

Dearest,
It was the last days of May when I arrived in Aberdeen, the city silvered by its own stone. The plane touched down in that gentle northern dusk that is neither night nor day, and by the time I reached the hotel — a brooding square of soot-kissed granite tucked tightly into the city’s centre — the sky had folded itself into a stillness not quite sleep.

But I could not stay indoors. Being more given to romantic impulses than reason, and perhaps still riding the lift of transit’s dislocation, I stepped out and let the unfamiliar street pull me southward.

The old road narrowed as if to keep its secrets, bending here and there in deliberate modesty. These crooked kinks, whether laid by accident or some cunning design, made little hollows where the wind lost its bite. The air was salt-crisp and faintly tarry. No one else stirred — not even the echo of a heel. It was as if the city had drawn in a breath and forgotten to let it out.

Soon, the last tenement gave way to scrub and gorse. The streetlamp — a solitary sentinel — trembled slightly, not from fear but from age, or the persistent north wind that fiddled with its glass. Beyond its pale gold circle was a deeper dark, and I paused there, where old light ends and deeper time begins.

Once my eyes had given in to the dusk, I leaned into the wind, as one might into a companion’s shoulder, and carried on.

Somehow, I had found my way back — through the creaking hush of stone, through streets that curled like questions never quite asked — to the hotel and, once inside, into the soft collapse of sleep. No dreams. No distant sirens. Just the deep, blank night.

When I woke, morning had already poured gently into the room. It was not the bold light of southern cities but a diluted northern clarity — pale gold through gauze, brushing the granite windowsill as if hesitant to impose. I stood a while by the window, watching the city uncurl. There is a kindness in how slowly the north begins its day.

I left with no map, only a notion: to walk through the marrow of the old town, from here to Seaton Park, ending with the river Don, wherever she might receive me. That was all. A pilgrim’s itinerary, light and long.

Aberdeen stirred gently under a sky still thick with the scent of last night’s rain. The granite buildings — grey, yes, but never dull — stood out against the soaked green like the first lines of a poem written in stone. You begin to see how granite can shimmer when it’s had a good sleep and a wet face. There’s a softness to it, I believe.

My feet led me northward, along High Street, over wet flagstones and under quiet windows. The city seemed to wake in layers: a cyclist blurred past; a baker’s van exhaled steam; gulls cried not from hunger, but sheer habit. Each step drew me closer to Old Aberdeen, and then, quite without ceremony, I was there.

It is strange how time can fold and how a street can carry you through a place and centuries. One turn of the path, and I stood before King’s College, its crown tower rising like a stitched memory of old Europe, but set down here in the salt-washed north.

The King’s Lawn still held a glimmer from the night’s rain, and walking through it felt like wading into an old story. The air had that university hush, as if knowledge itself was still dozing somewhere behind mullioned glass. And all around, time was thick. Not heavy, but textured. I could feel the centuries under my feet, soft as moss.

I lingered there longer than I meant to, as one does when unexpectedly addressed by history.

From King’s College, I wandered on, drawn toward the cathedral like a leaf drawn downstream. The path was the High Street — though nothing about it clamoured for height. It curled quietly through Old Aberdeen, the way things do when they’ve been left undisturbed for long enough. Its cobbled stones, irregular and shining with recent rain, gave the sense of walking not on a street but through a lived archive.

I kept thinking: these are the same stones — worn under the weight of scholars, of stooped professors in wool coats, of lovers brushing shoulders under thick grey skies, of faithful dogs padding behind distracted thinkers. How many thoughts have been formed, how many arguments rehearsed, how many quiet hopes and heartbreaks have passed along this very road? Perhaps even yours, long before I came.

I passed by Kilau Coffee, nestled beneath eaves so old they looked like they had slouched with age. A warm blur of students inside, half-animated, half-fogged by dreams or deadlines. I imagined them mid-debate, raising cups like questions, or else truant, secretly watching the rain drip off the gutters.

I went in, of course. Not to challenge any great ideas, nor to miss any class — I had none to miss — but simply to rest, and to think of you.

The coffee was dark and earthy, its warmth surprising after the outside chill. I took it to the window and watched the world slow by. Time moves differently here. It does not rush to produce, or parade. It reveals itself in weathered doorframes and moss growing confidently between cobbles.

And as I sat there, letting the steam rise between sips, I found myself wondering what it would be like to walk these same streets with you.

I made my way toward St Machar’s Cathedral — 12th century, they say, though the stones feel older still, as though they remember a world before the naming of things. The sky, ever mercurial, had settled into a soft pewter, and there was something in the light that made even the gravestones glow faintly, as if in quiet agreement with the centuries.

Standing at the threshold, I found myself imagining the voices — low, fervent, echoing up into the rafters. Words of worship, of grief, of pleading and praise, all spoken right here, at these very flagstones. How many have stood where I stood, shoulder to shoulder with hope or despair?

The stained-glass windows, noble and weathered, told stories they could never fully explain. Light filtered through them in fractured blues and crimsons, and I had the peculiar feeling they were watching me back. Watching all of us. As if they’d grown tired of being merely looked at and longed instead to be understood.

With those thoughts tucked quietly behind my ribs, I left the cathedral and drifted toward Seaton Park. The streets gave way to soft earth, and the city — so insistent with its granite grandeur — loosened its grip.

And then, suddenly, I was at the River Don.

It arrived not with fanfare but with presence. The trees thickened, the smell of wet grass rushed up to greet me, and I found myself within a world made entirely of green. Moss on stone, leaf on branch, blade beside blade — layer upon layer of green, damp and alive. The kind of green you could almost wear, or drink.

I walked along the riverside path, and I could not tell if I was following the river, or if the river had decided to follow me. We were companions in motion, neither leading nor lagging. Only moving, and listening. The Don whispered over stones in a tongue both ancient and comforting, while the wind sifted through the trees and, I swear, carried some echo of your voice — soft syllables that drifted in and out like a forgotten poem remembered mid-step.

Eventually, the forest path opened, and there before me stood the Bridge of Balgownie — hunched and handsome, with its single gothic arch stretching like an eyebrow raised at time. They say it’s one of the oldest bridges in Scotland, and it feels like it knows it. I stepped to its middle and paused, letting the river, the wind, and the centuries wash over me.

And in that quiet, I allowed myself a wish. That one day you might walk this same path, let the river show you the way, and find me here — my old self waiting, smiling, at the midpoint of the bridge.

Warmly,
Thilina

Home, despite

Bulbs flicker, their filaments frail,
casting uneven light on faded walls,
where once, colour sang in summer hues,
now whispers of time remain.

The floor creaks in protest,
a symphony of cracked tiles and weathered wood,
yet each step feels soft,
like walking on a memory.
Windows yawning wide,
welcoming the unfiltered world,
a breeze tumbles in,
carrying distant laughter,
the scent of jasmine,
the rustle of yesterday’s leaves.
Cupboards stand ajar,
locks tired of holding secrets,
their hinges sighing stories
of hands that once sought solace
in their shadowed depths.
The fans hang limp, silent sentinels,
their blades stilled,
but the air is alive,
thick with the hum of belonging.

Here, the imperfections align,
a choreography of the real,
where comfort is not in the pristine,
but in the persistence of love
etched into every crack.

The world through a window

Coconut shells whisper against metal,
a rhythm ancient as the kitchen’s fire.
Outside, birds stitch the air with song,
threading the morning in tones of gold.

From the temple, chants rise — 
a hymn to something vast and unseen,
murmuring through the walls
like an old promise.
The road hums sporadically,
a bike, a car, a tuk-tuk — 
their engines blur,
fading into the weightless distance,
a harmony of movement
that never quite arrives.
The gate groans open,
announcing nothing and everything.
A child’s voice leaps,
bright and sharp as sunlight,
cutting through the layers of sound — 
“Mom!”
a single word,
yet a universe contained.
Then, faint but familiar,
the bread van arrives,
its tinny tune an unlikely ode to Beethoven.
Für Elise dances through the street,
a melody mismatched but oddly perfect,
its echo lingering
long after the wheels roll away.

Here, in this room,
the sounds weave themselves
into a tapestry — 
not noise, but the language of life,
speaking softly
of all that is near
and all that remains far.

Revisiting the familiar

The house stands still,
its colonial bones holding time in place,
while the world moves faster outside.
The flat white, familiar — 
a taste that hasn’t aged,
even as everything else has.

The chairs slump, tired,
their wear a quiet testament
to conversations long gone.
The music has turned up,
a brash attempt at relevance,
drowning the softer echoes
of yesterday’s murmurs.
The staff — unfamiliar faces,
moving with a practised indifference,
their smiles rehearsed,
their laughter a stranger’s sound.

Outside, smoke coils lazily
around the same seats,
where the same kind of strangers linger,
their words lost to the hum of the main road.

And here I sit,
alone but not lonely,
the only occupant of this hollowed room,
where the past and present converge,
both too loud and too quiet.
The coffee warms my hand,
its comfort untouched by time,
and for a moment,
I am both here and there,
revisiting a place
that no longer remembers me.

Across years, the same light

We meet again,
the library’s whispers now distant,
yet something of those quiet days lingers — 
her smile, fuller,
her eyes still bright with that familiar spark.

Over gin and tonic,
the hotel sits empty,
save for our voices,
threading stories of life’s changes.
She speaks of longing — 
time alone,
a foreign country where one can finally
breathe only for herself.

We talk of stars,
their light enduring,
their collapse inevitable.
Her smile deepens,
and I wonder how her lips
would feel against the silence
I can’t break.

The room feels vast,
yet she fills it,
her gaze holding mine
longer than it should.
I think of her then and now,
a constellation unchanging,
its pull drawing me closer
to her smile,
her eyes,
and the lips I ache to kiss.

Southbound

To the south we go,
where the sea hums low
and time softens its edges.
Father, my brother, and I — 
a trio bound by blood
and these fleeting days.

The hotel, rustic and colonial,
its walls holding stories
older than we are.
We fill its quiet spaces
with laughter and long silences,
the kind that only family knows.
We eat, we sleep,
drift between the pool and beach,
letting the days stretch
like the horizon before us.

Simple pleasures,
precious because they won’t last.
Father is slower now,
his steps measured,
his gaze lingering
on things we often miss.
I watch him and wonder
how many more sunsets
we’ll share.

On the last day,
we stand together,
watching the sun dissolve
into the ocean’s embrace.
No words, just the three of us,
held in the moment,
grateful for now.

In the spaces between

We meet as if no time has passed,
though the years have sculpted us both.
Her smile — still a quiet sunrise,
her laugh, a melody
that lingers like the vinyl she dreams of.
She speaks of peace,
of a life that feels like Sunday,
where sunlight warms a clean room,
and music spins gently in the air.
A lingering dream — 
of a companion,
one who makes the quiet
feel complete.

As words flow,
hands trace shapes
of a future longed for.
And in the pauses,
I think of us,
of what it might be
to share those Sundays,
to walk into the morning
side by side.
Time has changed us, yes,
but the chemistry remains,
an effortless rhythm
woven through the years.

The person before me — 
a balance of strength and yearning,
seeking a peace
I wish I could give.
And yet, these thoughts remain unspoken,
drifting like a breeze
through the spaces between,
content for now
to simply be
in this orbit.

Douro unfolding

The road winds gently by the river’s flow,
Where olive branches brush the passing sky.
The breeze is cool, but warm enough to know,
This day will slip away, and so will I.

I watch the vines grow close, then drift apart,
The valley’s curves unfolding like a song.
Saudade fills the quiet in my heart,
For fleeting things I’ve known, but not for long.

The valleys speak soft, as nature always will — 
I grasp at moments, but they’re never still.

Mornings are longer in Alentejo

Is this a dream, or am I truly here,
Where morning breaks without the city’s hum?
The air is still, but full of sounds so clear — 
A world of birds that greet the rising sun.

No engines roar, no hurried feet below,
Just whispers in the branches, soft and light.
The silence speaks in ways I didn’t know,
As sunlight climbs and bathes the hills in white.

The Earth breathes deep, a scent of soil and pine,
Of olive groves and vineyards steeped in time.
A fleeting thought, this quiet must be mine,
But fleeting things feel endless in their prime.

Here, morning stretches long without a sound,
And I am lost where peace and light are found.

Canvas longing for dreams

I sit beneath the porch’s arching shade,
Where rustic walls breathe slow and settle still.
The wilderness of Alentejo laid,
A canvas vast that tumbles past the hill.

I think of vines that grew near Douro’s shore,
The Quinta’s slopes where grapes grew dark with sun.
The wine we shared held time within its pour,
A taste of rivers winding as they run.

The mountains stretch like endless, drowsy dreams,
Their spines a memory I once had known.
This land, so wide, in stillness only seems
To speak of things that change but still are grown.

The porch is calm, the wild hills untamed,
And here I rest, content with all that’s named.

Beyond the tagus river

I wake to silence, deep and softly laid,
No city pulse, no hurried steps below.
The morning still, as if the world had stayed,
Just long enough for me to truly know.

The earth speaks here in whispers through the trees,
In rustling leaves, in birdsong faint and clear.
A quiet peace that hums upon the breeze,
A space so far from all that once was near.

The world is wide, but here, I feel it small — 
And in this stillness, I am part of all.

Nature’s work

I walk through fields where silence softly hums,
And feel the pulse of life beneath my feet.
In every blade of grass, the rhythm drums,
In every breath, the world and I complete.

The hills and skies, the rivers far below,
All thread through this one moment that I stand.
Each part of life is tied to what I know,
Held lightly in the palm of nature’s hand.

In Alentejo’s calm, I come to see — 
How all the world is bound within me.

A home of a feeling

The sun sinks low and paints the sky in gold,
As vineyards stretch their arms toward the light.
The wine I sip is rich with stories old,
Of earth and sky, of day that turns to night.

The air is calm, the world at perfect ease,
With every breeze, a promise of repose.
Here, life unwinds in quiet, steady peace,
And in this moment, all my spirit knows.

In Alentejo, I have found my place — 
A life content held softly in its grace.
In Alentejo’s warm embrace,
Monte da Bela Raposa sings
Of endless serenity,
Where vineyards kiss the amber sky,
And olive groves in whispers sigh.
The gentle hills, the quiet breeze,
Wrap us in timeless reverie.

In the bucolic surroundings of Matsumoto,
step by step I move through the woods.
Memories arise from the comforting scent
of petrichor when the rain touches Earth.

A notion of grey clouds through the leaves,
a sign to find my North, towards NorthStar.
Time spent in nature is the time,
you realise that you are missing.

Last flowers of the Spring
Reminding us of the fragile love
Last snows of the Winter
Reminding us of the broken pieces
What are we holding on to,
Summer rains are here
to wash our sorrows away.

An early Sun rising through the lush
Grazing us with rays through the window
Summer drizzle falling softly on the ground
Gifting us with a woody musk to wake up to
Trees sway and swing to the melodies of birds
My senses awakening from a peaceful slumber
In all that nature brings, Tokyo missing.

Wall of white satin over the rocks,
Zengoro falls falling gracefully for eons,
To end up in a varnish clear pool,
Into the Koono river to carry away.
A love that follows its course, eternally.
I too, longing to fall and float, eternally.

Notes:
Zengoro falls — one of the waterfalls in Norikura highlands

I’ll wait for you,
in the Avenue de L’Opéra,
at the corner cafe,
with a coffee in hand.
Sing your way to Paris,
to the city of light,
before the warm croissant
and my heart gets cold.
I’ll wait for you…

Somewhere in the city of music
the stars shining above you
are the same stars
that shines above me
in the city of lights.

Miles away, I wonder,
do you look up,
do I cross your mind,
or am I the air around you,
that you breathe, never notice.

This train will take me to the autumn,
an hour away from Paris, to Monet’s gardens
where I will walk among the paintings,
admiring the vividly scented air.

Monet saw Giverny a century ago,
birthed a pink-washed longhouse
in the heart of the village,
with a garden that inspired generations.

I take slow steps through the gardens,
passing showers of colourful flowers,
breathing the gentle fragrances,
into the charming water lily pond.

I lose myself in the colours and hues,
enthralled by the flowers, until
a sudden realisation, an understanding,
that I’m within a masterpiece, Monet’s.

It may be the city of music
Where we met,
Where we departed,
dearly
But all I can see is
Mars bright above
Shinning over all the marble beauty
Like you used to over Vienna.

Walking down the golden lit street
gentle drops falling on me
as if they were dancing for Mozart
My mind was taken back to the wine
we shared, the smile you spoke
in the heart of Rome.
Few full moons later, we cross paths,
in the city of music, with wine in hand
So much to say, much to unsay,
all I can think of is
kissing your wine lips.

When Earth turns
for the summer nights,
we walked to the tunes
of the city of music.
Sharing stories,
speaking similes,
under the moonlight streets.
Then I realised,
a city full of masterpieces,
you were my favourite
to look at tonight.
All I could think of
is a gentle kiss on
your tender lips.

When Lisboa Awakes

Come sit with me
at the edge of the hill.
Our eyes gaze over the bridge
in silence while
Sun stretches its colours
and disappears
into the Moonlight
as Lisboa awakes
slowly
into a beautiful night.

Covilhã Train Ride

Monotonous,
it may feel and seem like.
Hardly it is though,
the journey from Lisboa to Covilhã.

Passing endless stories,
carrying more stories.
Maybe an ending,
maybe a beginning.
Second chance perhaps
or a hope.

Some are dreaming, some sleeping away.
You, on the red seat, with summer hair,
and a slight wondering smile,
colouring away the guided lines.
Anxiously looking around,
but selecting carefully,
each line, each colour.

At times our eyes meet,
but yours looking for comfort,
desperately. I wonder,
is it the art in every street corner
or the mountains of Covilhã?

Walls of Covilhã

It is beautiful I heard.
For
the mountains surrounding,
the snow that falls,
the wool that weaves.

I’m here for the walls though.
Deep solid strokes,
some soft sweeps,
giving life to empty walls,
throughout the city,
filling up people’s eyes
and lives,
with colours beyond the rainbow.

From the mind to the hand
to the walls of Covilhã.
A beautiful art gallery,
on the back of the Estrela mountains.

A Sleepy Town with a Heart

There’s a small town somewhere in Portugal.
Where life feels like an eternity of waiting.
The stillness is so calming,
you lose in space and time.
A remedy for city life.

In my morning, I leave the windows open.
Inviting the light to come through.
Sunshine so warm and golden.
A morning that confirms the beauty,
beauty of life.

Walking through the rolling hills,
to the castle on top of the hill.
Passing pine wood forests, with
a smell that says home,
it’s a feeling.

Moving slowly from stone to stone,
I look back from top of the castle.
Sun setting on one side,
with a beautiful view of the
Figueira de Castelo Rodrigo.

A Magical Place on Earth

Dawn of the day,
driving the long winding roads,
reaching a magical place
called Sintra.

I wonder, why it’s magical as
people say? Up we go, to
the heart of the fairy tale,
expecting an epiphany.

No two trees are the same.
No two branches are the same.
As if a paradise on Earth,
showing off the diversity.

Mist-soaked forests,
pine smell welcoming,
Royalty rising through,
with Atlantic, deep blue.

After dusk,
walking in the dark
walking in silence
listening to trees whisper.

I wonder, why it’s magical as
people say? Now I know, it’s
where nature and the man
become one.

A Walled City

Lifted from the pages of a fairy tale,
the walled city of Óbidos,
a medieval charm of romance.

Walking along the
cobblestone alleys,
passing colourful doorways,
smiling at bougainvillaea,
all I can think of is
falling deeply in love,
love with Portugal.

Where the Sky Touches the Sea

Standing where the cliff ends,
meeting a rebellious sea
sending wave after wave.
One might run away, but my feet,
longing the adventure.

Only the greatest of wave goers
touched these waters that
makes you relinquish your dominance,
becoming one with the sea,
I hear.

Midst of all the grit and the thrill,
an endearing charm exists.
A beauty that puts me in reverie,
yearning for your presence.
Meet me in Nazaré,
where the sky touches the sea.

Alqueva Mornings

I wake up and wonder,
Where am I?
Chaos and noise,
Where is it?

Tiny raindrops,
from a passing shower
falling on my tent,
reminds me that
I’m far, far from the city lights.

I wake up, wake up
To the smell of the plants,
To the sounds of the birds,
To the dancing of the trees,
To the rain drops falling on me.

She’s the Summer Rain

After the dust and heat,
in the heart of Lisboa,
where we met for long walks
through the endless roads.

Summer rain greets Lisboa
with a smell of comfort.
Makes me think of your smile.
Come over so we can cafuné.

Notes:

cafuné (Brazilian Portuguese): the act of tenderly running fingers through someone’s hair.