Being away from you is driving me into madness. Some may say it is the cold that is turning my mind dark or mood melancholy. Others have suggested my voluntary isolation is the cause. Whatever is said or though, I don’t make an effort to make corrections. To do so, would be to blame you for my malady. Malady? Surely this is not what it has become. I am a writer. Writers tend to be isolated and introverted so why have I suddenly been subjected to peering eyes?
That is what ignites anger, not you. You are my spark. A lovely, glowing ember of a spark. And surely, no one could argue that a spark can be cause for a raging fire. No, Sophie. You are a spark that only burns to provide warmth.
I’ll show them all. I will not throw logs onto their imaginable fire! I will cast off my jacket and gloves to prove the only warmth I need to live comes from thoughts of you, my dear Sophie. I will keep my scarf because you gave it to me. I remember. You did! I know it was a coy gesture that wasn’t meant to be seen by anyone but I. That day, while you were walking along the platform, when a gust of wind came in from the east and blew your gentle curls and your scarf danced into the air and gently landed by my feet. You turned and would not look at me. You looked at everyone else on the platform except me. That is how I knew you wanted me to catch your scarf. I knew you wanted me to keep it because you did not wait for me to give it back. Instead you began to walk faster …. And then faster … until you were nearly running. What a devilish flirt you were that day, Sophie.
I need to finish my writing. I have to rekindle my love affair with my Caligraph, the way I once had before you, Sophie.
Despite the clanking punches from the keys on my Caligraph typewriter, the droplets of rain hitting the window still interrupt my thoughts. Will they ever stop? It has been three days of rain and harsh winds. I am lonely and waiting patiently for news to arrive of my dear Sophie. I’m sure it is because of the rain that has been cause for her letter to arrive late … or arrive at all.
The last time I saw her, she was standing beside her suitcase on the platform of the train station. That final moment was too picture-perfect, staged almost. The steam of the train bellowed up from behind her and then hugged her into it until all I could see was her faint silhouette. She waved goodbye, or that is what I try to remember. The steam was thick and the sky was grey. Her bright red gloves were not even visible through that steam.
I remember when I bought her those gloves. Cherry red. Sophie’s colour. She can wear any colour and shine but there is something about that cherry red. When she wears it, no matter if it’s on her lips or her feet, hell even her lingerie, she carries herself differently, more confidently … no, more sensually, that makes even the heaviest traffic stop for her. Oh my dearest Sophie. How I miss you. I miss the soft tendrils of your chocolate coloured hair. I miss caressing your face with the tips of my fingers, outlining your nose, check bones and your beautiful pouting lips. Those lips, as sweet as candy and as soft as flower petals.
I take a break from typing and smell the air. I’m thinking of you and wishing so badly that I could remember your scent. Instead all I can smell is the kerosene from this lantern and ink from my Caligraph. My heart is twisting, sinking, pounding and all I want is for it to be still. I have never known what it is like for my heart to beat outside my body until that day at the train station. The day you disappeared into the steam.
I entered this world by your hands