Come nightfall, I wonder where you are, what you are doing now. I know you’re not a person who can just lie in between your silky sheets and wait for Sleep to approach. You’ll be busy at night, I’m sure.
Because I’ve read you long enough and you’ve me too.
My mind, at night, wanders. And tries to imagine what have you been up to these past two years (has it really been two years? I cannot remember clearly but somewhere somehow, contact was broken and you lost, cast out to the unfathomable depths of Memory). It twists itself, coils around the substanceless you, ethereal. Tries to flesh out an image of you. I see it slowly taking shape. Slim, slender-limbed, petite…and poof, it all disappears as doubt tears it apart.
Doubt. I don’t for a second try to imagine you too hard. I don’t want to set you in stone. Not because I don’t want to but because I can’t. I have nothing to remember you by. Except your words, crawling in that dark space. White fonts set against a black background, millions of microscopic light bulbs against a vast plain of darkness. Comforting. But even that was defaced, vandalised as you sold out and another took over. Created an entirely new being, which/who? was even stranger than a stranger for me.
And now I only have your words and worse, memories of your words. I try to conjure you out of alphabets but they don’t seem to fit each other properly like Lego bricks do. A doesn’t insert into B that well and there’s nothing that can fill C up. Your words have become a marker of your empty grave, one that I dug for you. Even though you’re not dead.
Sometimes, at nights like these, I wonder where you are. Have I passed you in the streets? Walked by each other without knowing? Bumped into each other accidentally?
I wouldn’t know. Because I don’t know you and you haven’t come to me yet.
But one day you will. I’ll meet you along the streets and we’ll do this all over again.