Foolish Heart

Is it silly of me that I still have your hand-written notes? Words seem to peel off the page as I read each line–outlines of each stroke are left behind. I look at it, positioning my self to your state of mind–imagining the thoughts going through your head as you write. As I read more, I get a sense of who you are; each spacing between words, the shape of each vowels, the bullets, lines, bold forms, all are hints of your mannerisms. I wonder how you are now. I wonder if your writing is still the same. I wonder if you still look at me the same. Perhaps if I graze my fingers on each dents left by the pressure of the pen, I’ll feel your presence. I wonder what comes to your mind when you write my name down–with the same hands that wrote these notes–the same hands that I have yet to hold. Is it silly of me that i still have you– written in my heart? –Or is it silly of me to have these thoughts that linger, like a ghost phasing through your walls–only a presence, you feel cold. You don’t see me, like I how I see you. You don’t feel the same way I feel for you. These things. . . I guess are silly.