Promise

I have stared at this space for too long but it is a promise I have kept.

A promise to write a story, about us, the unwavering imperishable link between us. I may finish our story tonight, or maybe not, but it is a promise I have kept… to endure and press on. It is a promise I have kept.

I have told your stories before, in some sodden summer rain or grim winter nights. Quoted in one of my many contemplations, underlined and embolden in my ruminations, tilted and encaptured like a chapter in this solemn place. But you were never a chapter, no, you are the paint that sheaths the poet in me from sun and rust.

You are a perplexing power, a story untold, that wrings me asunder in tatters yet whole. You flow unclothed, unchallenged in the marrow of my spirit.

-

Some days have passed, and I stare at this space, wading through hours I devour minutes, seconds, and I reckon there is much more to be told.

Recently I spent some days, doused in the olden ways, with you. But I have returned. Now and afar, I reminisce how I saw you diminish in the tail lights of our car. As the distance lengthens, I reflect how frequently I recollect the effects you have on me.

Now, with the passing of time, when I am no longer the same person, the same old, but I am a little more… Now when I am with her, who is my present, my past, my evermore… I feel your presence around, keeping me safe, sound.

You shelter me and now you shelter her, yes I see. It is your promise, I know. And when we are even more, when we are three or four, when our love blossoms into flowerets, when my old soul constantly frets whether they are happy or upset… You will shelter them too.

-

Many days have passed again, but time bothers me less. I confess, I will truly regret if my words fail to capture the subliminal rapture of your presence in my life. But it is a promise I have kept.

You are more than a location, a point, a destination. The soil of your hallowed grounds makes me float, like an untethered spirit. You stir me to write, to sing, to dance, to love.

Sometimes I wonder if it's only me who feels this way, about a place, about home. I amuse myself to believe it's only me, I thrive in this imagination of exclusivity… Imagination is all I have, and you gave that to me.

I strive to fathom your riddling mystery, chalked in the tapestry of my life. As I write these lines, I resign with contentment and a sigh. A sigh that cries not of relief or burgeoning grief but echoes the tunes of “finally, I tried… to write you a story in depth, like the promise I kept”.

When I am old, and truly old, when there is not a story left in me that is untold, when my mind seeks slumber more than my body, I will come to you, and write a final chapter on your shores.

A last attempt, by a man old and unkempt, to tempt your elusive form, to unveil itself and talk. Standing at the edge of life, I will share the stories of mine, in hope to listen thine.

In those final seconds, I will pen down with all my might and conclude your story. The thudding sound of a heavy book closed, no more a chapter but a story told. Beneath starry night, our pact kept, by an old man withered and inept… it was a promise I kept.