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Message in a bottle

Dear lady,

Evening has just fallen outside. The sky is still not entirely black and I can still see the dark silhouettes of the trees behind my window edged in the dark blue, if I look carefully past the reflections. In my mind, I see your lovely face, looking back into my world from a different, faraway place, staring dreamily without seeing. I wonder what your expression would be, if you could see me. I smile at the thought of you shaking your pretty head and calling me “silly boy” again.

I know it’s a bit old fashioned in today’s world of instant messages and e-mails, but I like writing a letter to someone who is special. Call me a dreamer or overly romantic! I will gladly take that blame. Tracing my pen slowly over the paper, in cadence with my thoughts, is my attempt at opening up and showing you myself. You see, I have no idea what your reaction will be, when you read all this. All I can do is write down the words, the sentences and between all that, the words I will never get to say. I can’t take them back. They’re yours now. I can just watch the ink slowly sink into the paper and settle calmly and definitively between it fibers. Oh, of course, I could decide not to send this letter, but when you are reading this, you know that has not come to pass.

The fingers of my left hand slowly slide over the wooden desk, fanning out as the surface resists gently and casting long, clawing shadows from the light of the yellow lamp in front of me. I remember how soft the skin of your back felt in my imagination, when those same fingertips traced your spine, exploringly sliding over the pretty dimples in the small of your back, just below your waist. I remember the sigh that escaped your mouth and slipped into my fantasy, when my fingers spread slowly as I let them climb up the rise of your graceful buttocks, resting my palm on your body and pressing down gently.

Did you know I can really feel your arms slide around my neck right now, as you kiss my cheek and watch over my shoulder? It’s you, after all, that makes my pen move and it was your embrace that gave me the strength, nay, the need to write to you. I have the childish urge to hide the paper with my hands and shoo you away. It’s not finished! You can’t see the painting until it’s finished. Even if I can never truly draw for you what I experience inside me in simple words.

You gave yourself to me. My desire overpowered me and I took your gorgeous body for my own, spurred on by your sensual whispers at first and your screams of passion, when my heart missed a beat and you took my love and treasured it deep inside your body. And I want to give myself to you. I have no idea how, but I know what I want to tell you. And I know very well that I will never be able to. I’m not so naïve to believe in things that may better remain unspoken.

When the wind’s lamentations around my apartment subside a bit, the steady ticking of the clock on the wall reaches my tired ears above its whispers. I’ve been wondering what you have been doing, while the night has kept my world on hold. How would you have woken, when morning broke, announcing that the new week has started? What would your thoughts be, while you manage a quick breakfast while dressing in your working clothes – oh, how nothing could ever hide your beauty, believe me! – no idea that someone a world apart from you is adoringly watching your inverted striptease? And then you leave, work calling, unaware of a simple guy you leave behind in a night elsewhere, smiling and turning his attention once more towards his pen and paper.

The sky seems always paler to me in the early morning than in the evening. It’s cold. I wonder if it has been freezing as I watch the waves playfully rolling onto the land as I fold my letter to you gently and carefully. How many months will it take? Years? Yet this is exactly what I want to do. The ultimate gamble with my emotions. To entrust my words to the ocean and let fate carry my message to you. If she deems it worthy for you to receive, well, that must mean something, right? And if not, then I will abide by her wishes and know my letter will be tossed and turned, confused with the passing of time and maybe lost forever. I don’t think I can accept it, but that’s another matter.

If only I could tell you! I feel like a poet without rhyme, a painter who can’t make his brush mix the colours just like he needs them to be. There are so many worlds between us and it’s a journey that neither of us will ever undertake. I know that. Our lands are separated by endless waters, our lives have only connected through illusion and imagination. And when the hum ends as my computer powers down, you have disappeared from my reality. But I know, I know that if only I could let you feel my touch, you would understand. If you would close your eyes and let me adore you, feel all the things I have to say through the way my hands touch your skin and my lips whisper to your body, I know you would realize. I would not need words to tell you and still know you would smile and softly whispered “yes” to questions that remain unasked now.

I will entrust my message to the sea, waiting no longer. I hope this letter finds you in health and happiness. I have no idea if you know who I am, when the years have passed and your memory has faded until the moment your hands open this bottle. Maybe you don’t even realize that this is for you. Maybe I’m not the one you expected a letter from. But I have written it, because I could not hold these feelings inside. And if someone calls to someone else with such longing, such desperation, surely she must hear?

If that is true, would you already know? Or will I walk this beach each afternoon, looking for an answer the waves will never carry back to me? Maybe, in some way deep inside, I’m uncertain enough to hope that this will never be read by you and just be forgotten. But for now, I turn up the collar of my coat and hide from the wind. Waiting.

Love,
Mark