My Love Proses

Prose 44: Sweet Nothing To Our Lavender Haze

i.
a glamour sheathed by gossamer, the incipient of our rendezvous, how on earth did we never end just as I thought that no start has ever begun? in the finest scintilla of time, where have you been all this moment that I am about to lose?

is this the reality of true halcyon under our moonlight conflated by "profession of knowing you better from afar but let this distance be closer to your heart" out of words for the realest that i got, how can you be so endearingly nowhere near evanescence?

yours is unprecedented, real, and minty neon green — special union of how midways should look like at the center. yet with all the bruises, punctures and scars i concealed, tell me how could I meet you when the name of our timing is all too late to write? will you still ever sign it?

ii.
there are those enigma of timelapses marked by eclipses beneath lunar memories where i feel like you were the language that i am no longer fluent yet still be able to read through whispers and candescent laughters, a resonating tonic of copernicus, columbus of vocabularies and all the meanings that i imprinted on sweeter brochures by keeping them safe and sound.

it is as if though i've memorized you for a couple of times, envisage terms that are much brighter than the sharp highlights of our dictionaries, repeated by the vehement collateral of repetition, my eyes still would love to land on you, "and yes, just as i do, may i forever read you, if you let me" and the little book you own has now become the baby of my library, funny but endlessly truer than irony.

as the sun sets and either polaris or andromeda peeks to the orbit of our so-called solar cave and create astronomical patterns out of the cosmic constellation we once made, there are times when i am wondering if are we still on the same page? if this book is still written with the penmanship we oath to never change? or if our hands are still intertwined as you write and smile over my name? "tell me if we are not on the same book anymore" i profess, no deep inside, i can read anyone no more. they say another book to come? no, i found its title the moment we lost ours.

my diplomat, if i hold your words so dear and tight, may you remember that the language you write is still my only favorite, and if we get lost in translation sometimes, all i ever ask is no more than sweet nothing but to let me read you softly from the voice of your heart, your calm, chaotic and charming universe that exceeds beyond infinite.

sincerely,
your fellow diplomat, one and only i guess