i left you a note in Aberdeen
I found myself within Aberdeen’s grey, cold walls sometime last March. The city has no colour, but the people are to my liking. I say this because I got a free bus ride when the driver realised I was new in town. Most of my time there was uneventful, but I cannot blame that on the city; I have a way of turning the most entertaining places into graveyards. I took a bus to Aberdeen and left a note for you in a museum.
I sat on a bench admiring art littered over the walls. Some had labels screaming Do not touch in red ink; it reminded me of how you hid your heart from me, fearing I would contaminate it. Some stood elegantly as centrepieces, inviting you to feel them, search through their corners with your fingers, and find the soul behind their execution. It’s almost like how I wanted you to love me. I’m glad my shirt was red, or else everyone would notice how my heart bled. In your absence, my heart cries like a child.
I found a book beside a bench and a pencil. Tourists, like me, are meant to create art within the pages of that book. I picked up the pencil and realised I hadn’t written with one in so many years. It’s identical to how I can’t remember what you sound like. I wanted to draw, but that is one gift God excluded me from its list. I wanted to leave something somewhere permanent as a monolith of our love. The only creative bone I have in me is words, so I wrote you a note. Within the pages of that book, I said things I’d never spoken to anyone before and after that day.
I echoed the pain in my heart with graphite on cellulose pulp. I called God and prayed for him to lead you back to me. Since his words are a light to your path and a lamp on your feet, I was sure you’d find your way back to me without falling by the wayside. With words, I painted pictures of all the places I wanted to show you and still do. I drew a big heart at the top right corner of the page, and our initials danced within. I wrote your name on the bottom corner in case an angel saw it and wondered who to deliver it to.
I’m still out here trying to be your numero uno. I want to feed you, fold clothes, take you down the altar and say I do. The way we are now is not what we wrote in the stars. The space between us is unnatural. I have a bag filled with issues, and I admit that. For you, there are a thousand things that hold you back. Can you take a leap of faith with me? Like that leper by the poolside, can we rise and walk? Say, yes, and I’ll outrun chariots; it’s been done before, I’ll do it again.
I left you a note in Aberdeen, it says I love you. If I wasn’t a coward, I’ll tell you.
Treasure said I’m in my writing bag, so be sure to give me 50 claps
