Perfume

“The dawn of beauty always comes after night.” 
Sorin Cerin

~

It's ninety minutes past midnight and you're not here. It's ninety minutes past midnight and I'm not here either.

I wonder how many minutes we still have together.

Over the course of history, sleepless nights have born witness to too many people, their headaches and heartaches, wishes and prayers, to songs that silenced the passage of time and a music in the silence that only the heart can hear. And yet on this sleepless night of my own, I swear by the graceful movement of your perfect eyes as they read these letters, that I just want to hear your voice.

I can think all I want about the non-existent distance between your stars and mine, about how our heartbeats travel the skies and meet midway to plan our next hug, and how our spirits visit each other's dreams and therein vow to forget all about it in the morning. And yet I know that all these thoughts are only echoes of the 'I miss you' that won't stop playing back in whatever's left of my soul.

I honestly don't know what to write anymore. And I don't know if I should do the right thing and leave or stay and see you every day. I know you told me to do the right thing but what's more important, the right thing or the right person?

You once told me that the only signs that matter are those we cannot see because it is those signs that keep us free and I didn't tell you how that simple thought changed my world. One day, I'll propose to you an equally beautiful idea that will change your world too.

But for now, tell me, love.

Tell me how you stole a heart I didn't know still existed. Tell me how you brought back words I thought were dead. Tell me how your perfume magically makes my lips paint a smile on your neck. Tell me this dream is good enough for you and that it won't be replaced with another, that you won't travel the world with someone else. Tell me that we will spend many sleepless nights together, nights where we won't know whether you are me or I, you, nights where I will look into your eyes and tell you the three words I promised myself never to say again.

For now, I tell you this, with the low, slow voice that you called boring:

I'm yours to keep.

~

“May night continue to fall upon the orchestra.” 
André Breton