Dear

How’s your beer, light and frothy? Liking the lakefront view from your favourite restaurant? Did you stumble upon the farmer’s market and was there an interesting find? What’s that foreign city like in person, not on Google?

I can’t help but wonder… if I’m with you on this trip; if you carried me, like some song in your music player, like some mint in your jean pocket, like some sacred thought in your head.

Will you be looking at empty seats next to you and want me there?  Do you picture me in a bar stool beside you, trying your beer, us marvelling at the sights together, holding hands, kissing occasionally, oblivious of the crowd and the chaos of the world around? Will you tell me, finally, how you feel, what you see, what you’ve dreamt of while apart from me?

You have no idea, but a line is being drawn today, as you drive to God-knows-where and as I court sleep.

This is where the red light hits, Dear. This is where I park my heart, right before I completely get sucked into an abyss of fantasies fed and romance happening and love beginning again. This is where we end.

Because what is the sense, in saying hi and hello and good morning or good night often, always, frequently—and never actually meeting, not seeing eye to eye, not touching? What’s the sense in talking and never hearing your voice? Why learn more about you, why divulge more of me, why expend the energy? Why bother with timezones and daily particulars when our lives are never to cross in reality? There are no intersections for us to collide. There are no dots to connect. There are no roads, no maps, no nothing.

There is a ticking bomb with every last sentence. ‘Cause maybe it’s the last sentence. ‘Cause maybe it is and I don’t want it to be. And all we have are these same sentences and some phrases and many words that fill the chat box. And these sentences and phrases and words will remain just those. They are empty, sweetheart. They are morose, even. They are not our feelings. They are not who we are. They are not real.

I have began feeling agitated, and hopeless, with all this. All we are actually doing is sacrificing ourselves, wasting our time, investing in a relationship built on thin air. All we are is a dream, a blip, a farfetched idea, an imagining stretched out in cyberspace. I don’t see how this could work. I don’t think I can continue working on us this way. I don’t think I was ever wired to function apart from my truths, my realities.

This is it, Dear. It’s been interesting and fun but I’m typing the last sentence.

All the best.

4 thoughts on “Dear

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        http:// authorabhijith.com

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