Forgive me the delayed arrival of this letter. The words are no less meaningful. Your note was beautifully written: heartful, compelling and sincere. Saddened though I was upon reading your thoughts, I sensed the end was near.
Our relationship had begun to evolve into something special. A little too special in light of the circumstances. We were on the verge of loving each other, truly loving the other. But we momentarily forgot: No love intended.
Tender are my thoughts.
Looking back, I guess it wasn’t suppose to be so good, was it? The differences, the distance, the imaginary barriers—all together, they’ve proved too much to weather.
But those tender moments shared shall remain locked away within the chambers of your heart, buried deep in your soul, penned in your mental diary as special moments on which to cheerfully yet tearfully reflect.
Ours is an experience to cherish. I appreciate your having the courage and taking the time to explore the possibilities. It was never my intent to complicate your life, Wanakee. Hardly did I expect to inspire your emotions. But just maybe I’ve been more than an acquaintance for you; rather, a revelation. A revelation of what your heart could come to love.
Tender are my thoughts.
Position the blank canvas anew on its easel and fingerstroke our memories in all the colors of romance, the breathlessness, the shoreline races at dusk, the impromptu cuisine rivalries that erupted into food fights, our chests as plates, your hands as saucers from which I sipped your nectar from our shared cup runneth overjoyed.
The silly den-hosted, dimly lit talent shows, us two alone–you won them all, even the ones I should have. The private piano lessons: You, the novice, teaching me, the ultra-novice, finger-to-key coordination as you hovered over my shoulders, your heart rhythms at once fast and calm, playing by funny ear, even with the notes staring at us.
“Goodbye,” you said. “This has to be our goodbye.” Reluctantly I walked to the door, your final request obliged, no words could I conjure, simply one last glance at your haunting eyes, and stepped out of the entryway. You sorrowfully shut it behind me. But stood there, your hand unable to release the knob, your body rested against the partition, mine stubbornly adjacent to its outer side.
I heard neither the bolt nor the chain. Still, I offered no last knock. The finality was in your eyes.
You resumed painting. I resumed writing.
Neither of us to stop until our very last breath.
Tender are my thoughts,
Romance . . . is learning to love again. -Rg2
© 2014 Romance by Rg2®