I have been thinking a lot about things lately. Fortunately, the weather has agreed with my mood these days. A sort of mid-winter treat. I trust you have been keeping yourself busy these days? Busy are these hands, burning away whatever traces of youth remain. Although such things seem trivial, I believe nothing is truly "trivial". Its rather just a label to help pass off feelings and facts without face-value, a mashing of truths, an avoidance of little things with hidden sentiment.

As I write you now, I contemplate the things left unsaid between us. Life is like that. It is always attempting to steal you, while Ms. Fate weaves and dances behind missing voices over the phone, across lost hope in empty train stations, and down lonely parkbenches and hollowed out hearts. I feel emasculated.

I recall out last few weeks together. Things were always so clear for me then. The sprinkling of dawn through rustic style curtains descending hand in hand with a purpose so close and so dear to me. That purpose was you.

Now as I scratch paper with stylo in hand, I picture far off poets laboring a quill as they open soul to a script. Such musings help pass the days. Soon the weather will change and the ocean return. Have you ever seen the Atlantic in January? I travel to it like a child, and lose myself in its wake. It turns and churns in its own forgotten memories. It tries and succeeds in holding beneath it secrets of old. At night it never calms and is vigilant in its wishes to return. And it does.

And so I wish to return. The roads here hold no more promises to me. They do, however, leave me no traces to help me find a way back from where I began so long ago. But this is the part that excites me the most. Winds change and cause proud trees to bend under their strength and stress. I cannot bend any further. So ready those old rustic style curtains and emotions. I am coming home.

Wait up for me,