quill feather letter table
Unsigned Love Letters

Unsigned Love Letters: The Symphony of Your Name…

Dearest Love,

I came to see you today. That is, I came to return a belonging of yours. That old bracelet of yours, remember? The silver one – though its slightly tarnished now – with your name carved on it? I found it in a drawer after you left our home and thought you’d like it back so I came to return it.

I stood outside your door, hand raised to press the doorbell and pass the delicate chain to whoever opened the yellow gate. [It still creaks, by the way.]

But I didn’t. Couldn’t.

Trust me, I wanted to. Had every intention to. By then the pad of my fingers touched the engraved letters and for a moment, I felt like I’d touched you. And I thought that maybe, just maybe, by caressing the alphabets of your name and hiding it next to my heart, I could hold on to you.

I know it’s foolish but well, I can’t very well hold you anymore, now, can I? Most certainly can’t hide you. But I can settle for your name.

Twelve letters that are almost sacred. Precious. A symphony better than music, all at once a reflection of everything you were, are, can and will become.

A reminder of all I can never deserve, much less have. Can’t help but need.

You know, I’m always surprised that people who frequently call you by your name can do so without feeling an ounce of the reverence I do. I have always found these unknown voices harsh, their expectant tone lacking, the syllables unable to contain the sheer power of your presence and being.

Surprised, are you? Can’t say I am. I never told you what you are to me – one of the many mistakes I made. Never told you that any part of you means more to me than anything I have ever had in this life. Never told you that to me your name is a magic rune.

A powerful, mysterious spell like the ones carved by Old Norse people in stone and wood. Your name is a prayer, a dream, a fable. It is reality and life itself. It was faith, trust and fairie dust… 

And to think that a famous writer once said, ‘What’s in a name?’  Shakespeare was a fool.

Always yours.

P.S. Mesmerizing, isn’t it, how you can continue to belong to someone even if they don’t belong to you anymore?

P.P.S. I know it’s too much to ask – I have no right to ask – but did you, by chance, see me, too? 

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