Missives

Dear Marcus

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‘………If you happen to be emotionally invested, even a little, you can’t disembark partially……’

I am staring at the dim lamp just outside the Zumpini. It is set on a low wall that characterizes this place; setting the ambiance just right for any activity romantics like me enjoy. For us, just being here is romantic. Hugging that coffee mug the way I do is perpetual. The dim light and the soft music does it. And simply staring at your face across the table disarms me. It is 1900hrs and I am waiting for a table to clear. I ordered a latte and I hope the couple at my favorite table will have cleared by the time my poison is ready.

So I keep to my phone and scroll through old shards of our conversations. How I first texted in response to a penning of yours; claiming your dark element appealed to the light I lost. I smile at the efforts I made to live up to what I imagined conversing with one that that writes should be; and surprised myself when I realized how right it felt. I note the timing of our conversation and grin at the absence of normalcy in our interaction. I am still trying to figure at what exact moment our conversation turned to something else; deeper. I am amazed by the urgency in the way we silently pleaded with each other to keep in touch; and how loud the moments we spent away from each other seem. Maybe it is that claim that all relationships could begin as ‘CASUAL ONLINE CONVERSATIONS FROM MUTUAL WRITER GROUPS’.

It’s our bleeding pens and bare souls that have us clinging unto the few moments that we have had. It is our attraction to heights we never imagined that draws us together and the feeling of my tilting my neck to meet your bespectacled form. It is the uncertainty that hangs around us that keeps us curious. It is the mystery of what could be that keeps us trying. Maybe we shouldn’t; but what is the worst that could happen if we chose to stay in each other’s circles?

So it’s me listening to voices after I am seated and drowning in the isolation of this noisy joint. Voices of distant Christian hymns; infused with noises from the bar next door and the sound of pool sticks hitting the balls, and the conversations at this hipster joint. It’s me wishing you were here; and recalling my vehement warnings that you keep your phone away when we first came here. It’s me recalling your almost innocent stare at my face and my failing efforts to hide my blush and girly grin. And later smiling at your adoration of my gait and step. And that threat that I don’t get to walk about with my pink lips freely.

I have no idea what it is I am doing. There is a part of me that loves that; not knowing. I have been peeling back layers of you; discovering things I never knew you were about. I have been feeding my curiosity and uncovering hidden parts of you I never knew existed. I have acted in ways that seem suggestive; yet guarded. Maybe I will let myself fall in your deep sea of creative genius. Maybe I should squash the embers of what is kindling here; but what’s the fun in that? Maybe I should risk something else and kill my inhibitions this once. Time can tell.

CareyJK

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2 thoughts on “Dear Marcus

  1. Pingback: Of An International Coffee Date | Becoming The Muse

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