A Celebration of an Unhappy Anniversary

My love letters to you take the shape of paper airplanes – exactly the way you taught me how to fold them. I need not read them to make me remember things. With my eyes closed, they launched my flight, back into the verticals we’re supposed to be counting.

***

Last night was almost as it was a year ago.  Only, it was a short tale of transit – with raindrops on each of our glass windows and our breaths of whispery songs. I looked outside, never at your face until your fingers crawled into mine as if they were searching for constellations the way they do before. I sighed and made my hand form a fist. There’s no use looking for stars there. Not even one exists anymore.

***

You were the quivering spring in winter and the most promising spring before summer. And like the seasons, you passed by too short. You left me in mid-summer then. Now, it’s my turn to leave you before summer.

I’ve already counted too much verticals, I lost track of them. Little did I know, it was spring again. Yes, last night was already spring – but a different one I must say.

***

My paper airplane love letters have already taken me far more than remembrance. They have actually lead me to as far as this reality – a celebration of an unhappy anniversary.

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