Love Letters to the World We Made (III)

Previous: II

Someday, the world will treat you right.

Someday, I know, you will be free. Free to chase your dreams across the damp white sand, free to leap into the starry night sky to reveal yourself, yourselves, to the dying constellations the way you revealed yourself to me. Someday, this one borderless humanity will care about you. Your fellow human beings will finally see past the superficial markers of “uneducated” and “unemployed” and foul-mouthing “white trash,” to embrace your gentle heart and sharp mind and all of the colorful, joyful adjectives that truly make up you. Someday, people will see you by the side of the glass-strewn road and think, here is someone I can love.

In the darkest depths of night, in the anguish-filled seas of depression and insomnia, I close my eyes and listen for the familiar sound of your voice, carried by the timeless wind across hundreds, thousands of miles to my bedside. You call my name and I’m swept back into the dreamscapes of years past – the years when we could talk every day, the years when I could hear your voice without reaching, without strain. I imagine what you must look like now, what you must sound like in “real life” – as if the connection between us was anything but real – and I don’t know why I’m crying.

Maybe it’s not so much of a stretch to say that the floods that tore you from your home were caused by man. After all, it was always you who could breathe my hidden pain.

Now, the broken years still come and go and the red thread between us is pulled taut. But you don’t have to worry about me forgetting you, because your name is tattooed on the inside of my eyelids, italicized to bring some small form of beauty to the suffering under which we gave. I have always felt like a wanderer, scouring the world for a nameless, timeless home I could never find; it wasn’t until recently that I realized that I wasn’t looking for a place but a person – and that person was always you. I will forever be searching for you. Until the day I slip and fall off the edge of the world, I will be chasing that form that is your shadow, chasing that dream that is your face. And the truth is, I will never reach them.

You may ask me what I mean by saying I will never find you, and I will struggle to reply. But my wordless answer is contained in the vastness of the surging, rising seas, stitched together by overlapping waves of arrogance and ignorance and pure human hatred that still, still refuses to let us live. “In this day and age,” you begin, and I reply, “I will never let you go.”

I will never let you go.

No other promise has meant more to me, but the truth speaks for itself when the look in your brimming eyes tells me it’s a promise I cannot keep. The phrase was condemned to the depths of hell from the start – just like you and me. I choke on the words bitterly, pleading to the stars for more time, more time, but it’s useless. In our lifetime it has always been useless.

I see the constellations reflected back to me in your tears and I know: the stars do not rule this earth anymore.


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