unsent

To someone,

I thought of you while I was walking through the city on Friday night, on a road behind all the noise, I looked to my feet and saw the leaves. The first hints of fall, since the last fall, and the fall before that. I wonder if I will still be thinking of you when I see next fall’s leaves. If you’ll know me then. More. Or less. Than now.

I haven’t felt certain. Perhaps that is why I am writing this now. Because when I am feeling uncertain and hopeful, I think backwards. Unearthing the past of things that seemed true. Because my memories are more trustworthy. More tangible than the stretch of people and land and time between us.

As I was walking, I remembered the book I left you. How I pointed to it as I shrugged on my coat. It was about a boy who went on a trip to find a girl. But she was right there with him all along.

I’d tucked a note inside page 123. A number assuming continuance. An expectation of next. One. Two. Three. And on. Because there’s always more to the story.

Where are you? I hope you’re happy.

That's all it said.

Now I keep listening to a certain song, one you wouldn’t know, about a train whistle and running water. About running away. And I think that where you are is brighter than the city lights I see. Just like the lyrics. Because you are stellar.

And I am still here. I just am.

And my skies have been missing you.

And I haven’t stopped hoping – not for a minute – that there’s more to the story.


From, me