Being a nyctophiliac, this has been one of its very few troubles that some nights, I don’t deem myself worthy of telling people that I love them. Not that I don’t have the right people or haven’t felt enough warmth. Friends, family, beautiful people,beautiful characters but no matter what they mean or how they love me, some days, I’m just a slave of my guilt and self-blame for things I can’t even be sure I must be feeling so for, and sometimes, I be my merciful master who lets me be loved; lets me accept the affection I receive.
Today, is one of those days. Today, I am my slave. Maybe the morrow’d make me the master and I’ll sing to you how I love you. Till then, I’ll hold on to these love letters I haven’t written yet; till then, I’ll write the songs I can, someday, sing to you and till then, may life be kinder to you than it’s been to us. May the rainbows of the night heal the scars of times on your heart and let the stars of day shine bright upon those smiles from our past. And I’ll steal an ounce of moonlight each night to heal these bruises from the chains of yesterday I hold myself in; Or maybe I’ll be a slave no more. . . for a while.
But not tonight.
So, I can’t let my love be heard tonight, be felt. So, I’ll just wait here, for you to fall asleep, hoping you’ll remember me when you wake up; for I may forever be a slave. . . but you, you are none. So as my lids get heavier with each blink, I’ll make them wait for yours to slumber. Maybe then, I can whisper ‘I love you’ knowing you can’t hear and walk away, with this letter still in my hands. Maybe one day, I’ll post it, if it doesn’t burn tonight.