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.