I pressed the pen to the paper, hesitating to draw it forward to leave a black trail behind it. What should I write, knowing that the letter itself might never see the inside of an envelope, and even if it did, I wouldn’t know where to send it.
I thought of you tonight, as the snow started to fall. I listened to the soft flakes passing by me, like the fluttering eyelash of a brief greeting against my cheek. Too romantic for your liking – too poetic and lacking of substance. Perhaps. It doesn’t matter, I do not feel tonight, in this quiet solitude, that I should worry about what you might think of what I write here. There is a freedom in knowing that your eyes will never trip over the round curves of this word or the next. Do I feel brave enough to let this inner voice loose to play here, where I never could before?
The snow is still falling against the window. I paused to pull the curtain back, touching the cool window with my finger tips. Over and over in my mind, I have asked myself what I would say if I had the chance? The flakes fall and gather at the bottom of the sill. The white reminds me of the paper, sitting idle and empty, though contained within intricate patterns rest on top of one another – a deeper mystery that cannot be seen from a distance. What should I write to fill the thousand gaps and canyons between us? Not even this ache to tell you to truth allows me to write more than this.
I love you.