The Autumn Note

I wrote a hundred letters under the scarlet oak tree whose branches are billowed by the afternoon gust. Whose dried up leaves surrender inevitably in a graceful separation from the tree's majestic branches, jostling with the wind as each piece parachute to the ground.

The warm hues of the leaves fall softly like flares around where I sat. I write my letters dated September the 8th.

In these thin yellow stationaries, I find myself writing random phrases and words devoid of all the rules of grammar and syntax. I wrote notes about those moments inside the park which give me a nostalgic feeling and somewhat, a sense of longing for those times we'll never live to see once more. I wrote about those quiet infinitesimal moments inside our room, uneventful yet all seem to be far from being dull. I wrote them so they may not be forgotten by my memory who fails me often or by my senses who deceive me. I would like to remember how I experienced those moments through my own unspoken and written words. I wrote my own version. Or how I just wanted to remember them. Blissful yet biased.

I was mute and you were blind. Pity me for not having the gift of speech, to enunciate the polarity between the most beautiful and painful words. Still I try to write the words I cannot speak of even if your eyes wouldn't permit my little letters to be read.

"What had love done to its two greatest slaves?", I would always ask.

I shower you with kisses and hugs, our only means of affection, as drops of salty liquid trace my face until they evaporate like the tears never did fall. But still, amid your poor sight, I handed my letters in one autumn afternoon, wishing that your new found love will read them for me.