I have imagined a thousand times, of writing to you. I didn’t write, because I was caught up in the silly, singular prospect of those words reaching you. It has been a long time since I first heard you, about fourteen years. I have grown since and you have too. I am 32 now, and have only recently realized the outcry in ‘Life for rent’. I listened to your song ‘Take you home’ a year ago, and refused to accept it. I didn’t ask why, but simply refused. I listened to it a while back, and I see you again. I see you have changed, and I see how. To ask why is above me. I see us again. Being true to my vivid imaginative self, I visualized a story set in a Victorian balcony in the dark. You were draped in a white dress, and I was there as myself – glasses in our hands, half filled, with space for moments to come, words to burn, letters to keep, songs to sing along when you’re there, and for company when no one else is around.
I thank you, your words, your stories, your hopes, your disappointments, your failures, your mistakes, and your journeys of coming back home. I look forward to seeing us again.