I’ve been looking for you in everyone I meet.

So here is a toast to us.

I’ve been pondering on these words for days, weeks if I’m being subtle, and months if we’re sticking to honesty. I’ve not been the best of men. For far too long, I’ve been drinking from the cups of other women. They love the way I speak-polished, slow, soft. I’m the kind of man they want to listen to speak until their eyes get heavy and they fall asleep. They confess their love with their hands across their face to hide their fluster. I’m bored.

I move to the next person, the cycle repeats, and I’m back to where I began. When would I tell myself I’m searching for you in all these places? Maybe never. Maybe I’ll search within the eyes of enough women that I forget why I started this journey in the first place. Or I’ll search their hearts looking for the warmth yours provided. This is not a good way to live.

They’ll break walls and turn crude to fire if it would dent my face with a smile, however crooked. I know they will. It shows in how their eyes glitter when I say hi, whisper a few words, and disappear until I need to feel something close to what we had again. I’m searching for you in every face I meet; why are you so hard to come by?

They whisk their compliments with poetry and paint me as Denzel. These compliments sound like static noises from a 90s radio, unpleasant and bland. I want to hear these words come from you. From you, they sound like the poetry they were intended to be, melodic, soothing, and medicine to a troubled soul.

My collection of what things mean to you is now outdated. I spent years collecting and labelling them in accordance with how you interpreted them, but I don’t know if they mean the same anymore.

And if peradventure you get tired of these men who do not know the corridors of your heart as I do. And they don’t say your name in ways that make you want to pick names for your first child. If fate be so kind, and you are searching for me too, know you can always come back home. The doors are wide open, and your voice will always be the key if you meet them shut.

So here is a toast to us that never was — a toast to the memories we created for each other in expectation of when we became. Grab your glass from wherever you reside in this revolving ball we call home and raise it to the sky because I’m here doing the same.

If you loved this, then I think you’d love my short stories collection titled “7 Letters to Ruby. You can download it here