The Letter

Ms,

I know you don’t know my name. You probably didn’t notice the colour of my eyes. You just give me these love letters that I am not allowed to read.  I just left my job, and this is why I can finally write to you. You will understand what I mean throughout the letter.

I saw you dying for seven years. I saw you waiting for words you never received. And I felt the screams inside of your soul, hidden behind the waves of your skin, which bring the sea of your charm to life. I saw the pain of your hands with every letter you gave me… yet, I remained silent – not because I wanted to.

‘Thank you Sir’, was the only thing you ever told me. And your address was the only place that captured my heart. I mean, I did have to take letters and deliver others, but your mailbox was where my breath belonged.

Ms, I would like to call you by your name, but I would sound rude. I would like to tell you how gorgeous you look when your hair is a mess and you have this coffee mug in your hand, at 5:18 AM. I would love to rip these envelops you give me every morning, the way your tears rip the veins of my heart.

And this morning, as I got the retirement, I decided to finally open my lungs to you, the way you opened this box of criminal letters in your garden, every sunset, for years.

You see Ms, 40 years ago, you and I were in love – not like grown-ups are, no.. we were in love for real. Back then, as I told you I had to leave.. I went to save the country, and I lost my memory.

After coming back from war, I became a mailman who only knew his name. I took the letters you wrote to me every morning and dropped them somewhere, not knowing it was our summer house.

As I became the one responsible for delivering the words you wrote, I saw you crying every morning waiting for the answers you didn’t receive.

Seven years ago, my memory came back to me, with therapy and medication. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t tell you who I am, especially that now I am neither physically as attractive, nor mentally as healthy as I was decades ago.

When my memory hit me like a truck, and as I was driving one, I knew it was you – not because of the way you look, nor because of your smell, but for the way your tears danced with your eyelashes the way we danced together: with passion. I knew it was you my love, I knew it was you.

Still, I was unable to tell you. I had to be brave enough to let you know that I didn’t write back because I was out of this world for a moment. I was unable to answer you because I was hoping you would move on. I couldn’t put in your mail box my own letters, because sometimes you love someone so much, you have to let them go.

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