Hello, I send you written greetings from the other side of the veil. How is the grass on your side of the wall? Here it no longer grows. This might seem like it’s coming out of the blue but I miss you. They say time heals all wounds but it has been years and mine are still fresh and bleeding. I think about you every day. It’s funny how after all these years you are still my waking thought. Sometimes I just want to close my eyes and sleep for eternity. Maybe today is that day. You should know that I can see your house from here. Okay, maybe not your exact house. I can see the apartment complex. Did you move? I’m alone on top of the roof. There is a difference between being alone and being lonely. I realized soon after you left. I don’t feel lonely at this very moment. I am talking to you after all. What happened to our hour-long midnight calls? It is 12 am. The air is freezing, not cool. Cold. The type of cold that cuts deep into your body and shatters your bones. I never really understood what deafening silence meant until tonight. It’s quiet. Graveyard silence. I can hear my thoughts with such clarity. The voices in my head are so loud they are deafening. I often want to reach out and ask after your health. Whether you followed through on your plans and how your family is doing but every time I pick up the phone to dial your number my fingers become rocks. I remember you told me not to. I remember you chose you over us. It hurts. I well up and push back the tears. I think that I have been listening to too much Adele. It’s finally gotten to me. I’m staining the paper with my tears drops, if you lick right above the last few I’s you’ll taste the salt.
I started drinking again. Alcohol and I have a relationship similar to what ours was, on and off. Often on. Beautiful. Addictive. Toxic to an extent. We always find each other like we did, until we didn’t. I still had hope until I saw you with him. I must say I don’t like him not because he is better looking. Okay maybe it’s because he is, you didn’t see me but I could see that you were happy. You had that spark in your eyes. They lit up when you looked at him and then you squinted. That is the very moment hope took its leave of me. Fleeting love. Fleeting hope. These are not the ramblings of a drunk man that you sweep under the carpet. I am only on my second glass of some expensive whiskey I can’t pronounce. It is a type of cognac. I bought it to celebrate my promotion. Still working at the same company that sucks the life out of me in case you were wondering. Not much life left to suck these days. The pay is better now. I moved to a bigger apartment. An open studio where air fills the space and the cool breeze touches the core of your soul. It has too much space for a man who has not a companion. Sure, my bed is warm most nights but I am cold inside. When you left it’s like I died. Did you know that when glass breaks you can’t put back the pieces as they were? Some pieces will always be missing. I am the glass in this analogy. Now I just go through the motions. A zombie.
I moved here because we talked about living in a place where we could walk naked from room to room and stare at each other. I would watch you make breakfast from the bed and admire your slender frame. We would make love from the kitchen countertop to the living room and back to the bedroom without having to worry about bumping into a wall or opening a door. I still have those dreams. Sometimes I wake up and look beside me to see someone other than you and break down. I don’t let my emotions show. It is not manly. It is not African. My bathroom mirror can tell a different story.
Other than that, nothing much has changed. Except me of course. I am not the same. Evolution of self is inevitable. The last words you uttered to me before we parted ways. You were always so intelligent. You possessed a rare kind of intuition. I wonder how you have evolved and grown. I can only imagine the woman you are now. I became cold and spiteful. Withdrawn. I am hard to love now. More than before. There is a wall around my heart that no mere mortal can scale. There is a girl on my bed right now, covered under the sheets that you bought for me. Under the sheets that you bought for us. Her name is Misty. I am on the fourth glass of this exquisite whiskey. Misty and whiskey. It rhymes. I’m seated. My feet dangling off the edge of the building. Everything looks so small from 30 stories up. There are lights all around me. Yellows, bright whites, and greens. It is beautiful. So much light around me but none in me. There must be something poetic and philosophical about that. I’m getting tipsy. If I’m not careful I might fall. Maybe I should fall. Maybe then I will sleep as soundly as she is sleeping. Filling space in my house while my heart is still empty. I hate myself these days. I have never particularly liked myself but these days I have a deep hate for myself. I hate who I have become. Stumbling through life without direction. I lost myself. I have no one to blame but myself. Hindsight is 20/20. Regret is nothing but missed opportunity. I sincerely hope you haven’t been going through this rollercoaster of emotions. I have been looking at my rear-view mirror hoping to catch a glimpse of your frame, still no luck. I get shivers every time I hear someone say your name.
Would you be my salvation? Could you be my salvation? I fear I’m too far gone. Then again maybe I will find myself at the bottom of this bottle. Let me tell you about Misty. She is a simple girl. Like you. No make-up. All natural. Beautiful. Scratch that she is angelic. Her features rival most models. She probably bathes in milk and honey like Cleopatra. Never have I felt skin so supple and soft. No blemishes or rashes. No marks or scars. She is happy all the time. Cooks fantastic food. She loves dancing and yes, she can twerk. The type of girl any man would kill to have but she is not you. You were scared and damaged. Bitter and sweet. Harsh and cold. A real pain in the ass and yet still you are the only girl I would die for, ironic. You probably haven’t received a letter through the mail ever in your life before so I thought I should break your postal virginity.
Have you heard Eminem’s ‘Stan’? It has been playing on repeat in my mind all night. You should. It’s about obsessions and extremism. Unlike Stan, I know exactly how to send this letter to you. I left misty a note on the bedside table. Do you remember it? It had hints of Mahogany and Elgon Teak on the face with sprinkles of silver and brass on the drawer handles. A regal table. The note reads “COME TO THE ROOF, THERE IS A PRESENT FOR YOU” I wrote another note and pinned it on this letter, hence the hole. It reads “SEND OUT THIS LETTER ADDRESSED TO J, MAKE SURE SHE GETS IT”
If you are reading this letter the plan worked. I am on vacation in the land of no return. Hopefully, I am at peace.