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.
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