April 1st, 2014. 11:45pm. Azikwe Hall, UI. Dear Farida, Life is what you call it: a lost letter in the wind. Love is what you call it: a sore that defies every balm. It is what we try to define. And we may not be able to define it till the earth bears a different name. Today I scribble a letter in your absence. I no longer play the guitar. My love is gone with the wind. Or when will you return? Is it when I burn my poems? Is it when the walls creak with no voice to break the prolonged fright in me? Farida, I no longer sleep. I have tried to remain conscious but its not possible. You are not here and Im not there. My heart longs for you. Come home...Come home, baby. II They say love is a hazy figure in the wind. It confuses me to see why I cant do without you. I cant forget you. I dont even remember how to erase your touches on my skin. Your thoughts are replicated in mine, Farida. The road to the beach is a map in your heart. So, come home. Tonight I gaze at the picture on the wall. It symbolises many things. As a poet, Iav tried to hide the picture. It haunts me every night. It makes me look like a mad man. Anyway, Im a mad man when I write. Writing transforms; your love transforms. Your love remains but writing may go. I will stay with you. III The tragic thing about writing is solitude. It engulfs me. Your presence is now a story. I no longer write with the mindset of publishing my poems;I write because of you. I want you to be the only poem to be written by me. I want to feel the fire in your heart. So, come home tonight to listen to the tunes of my guitar. Come home to feel this tempo. Love is sweet.
Posted on: Wed, 02 Apr 2014 18:05:39 +0000
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