Dear silhouette,

I write to you today to tell you that I have once again soaked my feet in love, and then the rest of my body followed; that makes the whole of me trapped in love. Is it not just beautiful to experience such a sensation with some divine spirit you have never met, but feel like you are about to meet? You fall in love with their words. Of course, I write, too. I do not know whether my words affected them the way theirs did to my Being, the way they repelled my nightmares and brought forth the sweetest dream.

It’s ethereal, this sensation. Call me a liar, but I’ve been with her before, although we never met or never talked. Call me a liar, but I can feel her swift breath, and it’s on fire! Call me a liar, I’m obsessed with her words, a mad dog smelling a rag, looking in the suburbs for the fugitive; you are my fugitive. And, as habit had it, I’ll find out your whereabouts. I’d smell your existence from above—God’s eye view. It’s funny how typed words can drive me into an effervescence of frenzy. We load them with meaning. What do they load us with in return? These hectic sensations, I assume.

I think not; I only type. In order to respond to your bewitching words, I need not ink and paper, but strong vocal cords to scream—that you and I exist and life is abundant with meaning; that we may be together, some day, some night, toppling the world.

And I promise we will witness the fading sun again.

Until then, I shall pull back my feet from the well they’ve fallen in.



Picture Credits: Youssef Hamdi