letters to

[methrowrock]

Late at night, when I cannot sleep, I write letters to you in my head. Dozens and dozens of them, complete with crisp lines and the loose tendrils of drying ink. Fountain pens, with curved golden tips, I imagine that you would like the quaintness of them, and the way the words unreeled from a spool of molten gold. Satiny and persuasive; perhaps, you would feel the cursive of my feelings wrapping around you like morning mist. You would feel a little chilly, but all the more, you should embrace those words, shimmering and shivering like young ghosts. Because without you, they have nowhere else to go, except to haunt attics with whispery echoes and sigh softly whenever the night-winds swirled in with a fancy foxtrot or two. And that is what they have been doing all this time. Why do you think that the wind-chimes murmur so? The leaves rustle with unheard secrets, and wizened from their woe, choose to shrivel up in a fetal contortion (the reverse way as it sprouted, be kind when you rewind) and leave their fates with the wind once more. You would giggle, as they crinkle and crunch right under your unseeing feet. All the better to set the thoughts alight then. You would be warmer that way.