February 14, 2016

My dearest,

Lavender’s not quite purple, not quiet violet, much less blue. Still, its fragrance reminds me of how you are supposed to feel when you are not quite sad but disappointed and hurt all the same yet not very certain as to why.

There are still colours I have yet to discover about you.

You have your silences, your hours and your days of quietness. When things go awry, you moan the wreckage of your carefully laid plans and precise schedules. It’s not me, I know, but somehow I feel it’s my fault. As though I could control the flow of traffic on the highways or extend the warranty on electronic devices to some time closer to Forever. And if I could, I would.

But I can’t and so I worry about your silences and your quietness, as the hours threaten to stretch to days. These lapses into stillness come and go, and are few and far between. Still, I worry: Is it me?

There are still colours I’ve yet to discover about you. I may not know them all — you continue to surprise me — but I know you. You are like the scent of lavender: unmistakable, and once I’ve had a whiff of it, unforgettable.

Yours, ever and always.