June 1, 2008

My dearest,

Mandarin’s not quite orange, no. Not quite acidic enough. This is warmth, loose as the skin of the citrus fruit, easy and comfortable. We wear this well. This camaraderie of souls. Conversations flow as smoothly as wine; they both pour out freely when there is nothing better to do on a lazy afternoon, a holiday. Surely we don’t need an excuse to take a break? Surely we deserve this?

Friends chat with me, we laugh, tears slid free of their bearings, such filthy humour, such merriment! Yet even as I guffaw and grimace, my mind’s not here. It never arrived with me to this party. It’s stranded somewhere on the highway, trailing after your car, after you left me at the bus stop, where my friends would pick me up for the journey to the party, chirpy and carefree, ah these sweet friends of mine, they wouldn’t know.

My mind’s elsewhere, wandering, looking for my heart still. Silly thing, doesn’t it know my heart’s never left yours?

Yours, ever and always.