January 24, 2012

My dearest,

It isn’t dawn yet, not quite. I open my eyes, hop out of bed. (The strange new/old bed in my parents’ house, no longer my home, not really – I have outgrown it.) I brush my teeth, quickly, furiously. Shower, dress, grab my bags. No need for breakfast, I will grab it on the way, at one of the rest stops or petrol stations along the highway. Some bitter coffee and doughnuts too sweet for words, a few quick bites for the calories. I’m driving back to you. I’m leaving Malacca behind, abandoning the town to the rubbish tourists and hordes of unwholesome relatives. I leave them in the distance. I’m coming home to you. I’m coming home to you.

Adele comes on the stereo: “There’s a fire starting in my heart / Reaching a fever pitch / It’s bringing me out the dark.” I see you in our living room, your eyes half-closed, singing this song, happy and lost in the song. You are bouncing and light and you have no idea how you start my fire, how the very thought of you brings me out of the dark. You stretch your hand out to me, grab me by the fingers and bring me to a dance. I’m coming home to you. I’m coming home to you.

Yours, ever and always.