Letter to a loved one:
“I hope that in this black ink, my love may still shine bright. I hope the words I use may convey my thoughts right.”
Modou, how are you? It’s been a while and I…I miss you. I miss your sweet voice, your soft hands, your whispers, and yes, your eyes. Every day, I brag to the sun about how those lustrous eyes cannot be compared to its dull rays. I miss us slowly dancing on the terrace to that fast Indie song we love.
How is Fichē? How’s the food? Do you eat well? I started gardening last month, and I cleaned those flower vases that you love and bought some flowers for them. It’s funny how your departure has drawn me closer to nature, to you. I even started taking my tea with sugar too. The first time I drank a cup, I took 4 cubes and I could hear my taste buds struggling to ask me if I was sure of what I was doing. I ignored them. So I guess it’s me, you, and diabetes to the world, baby.
It’s been raining and unlike everyone, thoughts of you have been keeping me warm. How can I forget the heat that rose from my stomach to my chest when I first felt your lips closing in on mine? Or the wave of warmth that rushed through me when you assured me about your undying love?
Do you know that my hair has increased in length? That scanty hair you used to tease me about is an inch close to the nape of my neck. Do you know how much I miss catching a whiff of your musky-scented shirt when you dash past me after an argument? Modou, you do know that your voice could break the ceiling anytime you raised it — but it was always kind. You are so beautiful, you make the silent treatment hard.
My mother thinks I’m crazed and I do not blame her. You’ve stolen my heart and I cannot but forgive you for such robbery, you charming thief. She even thinks I’m foolish to wait for you and I think she’s just without lore. She doesn’t know that at the remembrance of your sweet, sweet love…I am wealthy, so wealthy that I would dread exchanging states with kings.
It’s been 41 months and it seems as though time has refused to decay yet the leaves are turning yellow, again. My heart is grieving and heavy tears are the badges of my woe. Had I known that love would breed this amount of pain, I would have languished in my solitude where I’m certain that peace would reign. Modou, where are you?
Do you not know what you do to me?
