Letter by Anoud Al Zouman

Posted on March 12, 2012 by

0


Dear artist of mine,

I never thought that one day I’d be writing this. That one day I’d be too much of a coward to face you, too much of a coward that I’d write you; and I’m sure that you’d paint me; my long lost artist.

I recall how you drew me between a starry night, and I asked you, if you were to paint me between the stars would you do it so that I shine? Or that I burn?

I could never be quite certain.

My long lost color.

Color me happy, I pleaded. I’d color you comfort, you drew into my heart. You yelled at me with your wild colors, you told me to choose a shade, be it white, be it black.

And I chose grey.

What more could I do to anger you?

If I threw out your brushes you wouldn’t be vexed, you’d draw with your fingers. A man that found a solution to everything; one that was only angry by another; and I write this with a sigh, dare I say that it was I.

If I could caress your face once more, for the last time, I wouldn’t let go. I’d hold you and show you the words that I’ve been meaning to write about you.

My long lost painter.

My apologies scream out your name on repeat, as a broken radio stuck on a sentence.

If only I knew what you were worth, if only I wasn’t too mesmerized by anything else but you.

Your brown eyes carved their way onto my heart, your hypnotizing stare that had me in circles.

Your body that wrapped me in safety beneath the suns glare. What good would my tears do when you’re already above the skies?

Do you see me write this? Can you see me? Are you there?

Hold me between your wings for I no longer see the point of anything; the morning commute, the dinner that I have before I sleep when you’re not there to share with me.

My long lost canvas.

I emptied myself in you, my sad stories my tales, I threw my negatives in you and I kept my positives to others.

You never complained; instead you’d get up and paint the drawings of men, that saddest of men.

It was you, wasn’t it? I’d stare but I never observed I felt but I never loved. If only I took the time to figure you out. Your complexities that only now do I sense.

Yesterday, before visiting you I searched through your art, your writings that you never showed me and I read.

If I knew that you viewed me in that way then my ego would hold its head up and smirk in satisfaction.

An artist in love, you never quite realized how I treated you.

I’m sorry.

That’s all I can say that’s all I can do. I’d kiss you I’d love you but you’re not here anymore.

Only did I realize your importance when you left.

Only when you left did I realize my actions.

I’m sorry.

I’ll wave the sky in farewell and hope that one day I can redeem myself and I’ll hang the pieces of you on my walls and I’ll remember you; I’ll celebrate your existence; no good would it do you nor would it do me but you are now an obsession that grows in my mind.

My long lost love.

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