Aida Zabidi
I remember those love letters. 

It was long ago now, and the one who wrote them to me is now happily married but I still remember them, and those beautiful words he said. I remembered how he would use the exact same paper with the exact same pen, how he first gave them to me in their nice crisp unmarked envelopes. A presentation much too clinical for the content within. 

He wrote so beautifully, and sometimes when I’m having an off day, I re-read them, and marvel at the rose coloured glasses he must have seen me through. It is rare these days for someone to still write, and to possess the vocabulary of a poet; and I smile at the memory of the times we once spent together. 

They were wonderful memories, of late night talks in moonlight, and good company. It seemed like we never ran out of things to say, and that the time spent together was that wonderful rare friendship that would spring out of nowhere – at least until desire entered the picture. 

How confusing desire can be in a relationship that started off between friends. We tried for a little bit, but my heart was not there, and it was a love story that was not to be. It was something that I think about with a lot of fondness and I trust that the past has happened the way it did for reasons that are beyond the two of us. 

“You know you’re in love when you can’t fall asleep because reality is finally better than your dreams,” he said. 

Thank you for the memory that once was. 

I wish you the blessings of the love that you once wrote to me about. 

I hope you never stop writing these words, and that you never have to wake up from the beautiful dream of your reality.
1 Response
  1. Someone who would write actual love letters to me would rate very highly in my opinion. I have composed hundreds in my head, all never sent. Nice to know that Romance isn't completely dead just yet :)


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