Clacking of keys fill the silent room as I type out letter after letter, words filling up the screen. It feels as though I have to fill it up with all the words I know, just to make myself feel a little bit better. Words make me happy. Words make me emotional. Words make me think of you.

 

 Black on white; white on black – just like my life.

 

Mindless typing soon turns to desperation as I close the now burning laptop and grab the nearest pen and notebook to scribble. The sound of pen on paper calms me a bit and I look to the night sky. The cool air at night like your gaze across the room; the stars like the hidden light in your eyes; clouds misting over like the distance between us; the moon so much like your smile, waxing and waning, but when it’s a full moon, it’s especially bright.

 

English letters soon morph into Chinese characters, a mix of simplified and traditional, as I feel the poetry in the characters make more sense than repeated letters tonight.

 

I pen the lyrics of two songs in my notebook, (你聽得到 and 2月30號見) the meaning of the words hit closer to my heart than ever before. My heart feels like a sinking ship. Now I know how Titanic felt.

 

I rip the pages out from the notebook and the sound of paper tearing is so therapeutic I kind of want to write another page of words just to hear it again. But instead I fold the paper neatly, and rummage through my drawer for an envelope. I place the letter into the envelope, sealing it carefully. But envelopes never seem to like me, as the edge finds its way to the flesh my thumb, slicing it open slowly.

 

It’s as though it’s opened a floodgate as a new string of words enter my mind and I write a random poem on a scrap of paper before the words escape me.

 

Your address I write in the best handwriting I can ever try to write, I’ve memorized it so well I don’t need any reference anymore. The foreign letters seem familiar to me, even though I probably will never know how to read them in my entire life. The set of random letters and numbers, and your name in black marker pen.

 

The letter I leave on the table, and I pick the scrap paper up, the one with the impromptu poem. Opening up my laptop again, I work on it until I think it’s fine, and hit ‘Print’. I hope the format turns out how I want it to be, instead of being screwed up like the previous times I tried. I’m not fond of paper wastage, it just means less paper for me to write to you.

 

Give me a 
pen and paper 
and watch the way 
the ink bleeds onto the 
paper. That’s my love for 
you written down forever.

 

Soft buzzing from my phone reminds me I should really get to bed. But I can’t and I won’t, not when there still are words left in my head, floating around, trying to reach you. If only there was a way for me to let you in on all the words I see behind closed eyes, words that never go away.

 

Instead of trying to catch up on the obvious lack of sleep I have, I stare at the clock, the ticking of the second hand trying to lull me to dreamland but instead I have a better idea.

 

24 poems for the hours of the day. The times that remind me of a certain part of you, the way you smile, the way you move. Your hair, your lips, your eyes. Everything is always about you.

 

 

If (only)        

we (time)

ever (will)

meet (tell)

 

 

Pulling red paper from my drawer, I fold them into hearts. Paper hearts for my love. Paper hearts to you. The creases each time I fold the paper feel like the marks you’ve left on my life. Smoothening the paper out will still leave traces of you behind. But it’s still my love. My love to you. My love for you.

 

I open up a big box that’s filled with paper hearts of all sizes and colours, and place the twenty or so red ones I’ve just folded together with the rest. Maybe some day when the box is full, I’ll send them all to you. Then you’ll see all the colours you’ve brought into my life, and all the love I’m capable of. Maybe then you’ll know.

 

It’s 4 am now and the silence of the night makes me think that I really should try to sleep. The still air seems to suffocate me and I can’t think clearly. My eyes mist over with sleepiness and maybe a few words here and there, but I ignore it all. Instead my eyes fall to the piles of envelopes that have gathered around my room. Envelopes all addressed to you.

 

I wonder if I will ever get the courage to mail these letters out to you. Or if I ever send them, will you read my words? Words so sincere that they cut my heart each time I put the pen to paper. Words that haunt me even when I’m sleeping. Words that I need to say to you, but you will never understand.

 

And at the back of my mind, I always see the same words.

 

In my mind,

I envision

the perfect words

written

in a language

that he will never

understand.