I have to find you.
The morning has turned cold on us. Dark clouds, a shade of sorrow splashed across the heavens. Grey is a feeling, no? It will rain soon enough. Just enough time to drive out and buy breakfast. The warm slabs of chee cheong fun and a big bowl of tau foo fa, slathered with dark ginger-laced caramel syrup and hot, fresh soy milk. Just the way you used to like it. Where are you?
Coffee tastes bitter; I would have thrown the whole pot away normally but I must enjoy this: punishing myself. You used to take it black all the time, now you aren’t here, I don’t know if you still take coffee. Does green tea suit you better now? Or is it much warmer where you are now? Perhaps it’s a glass of iced lemon tea or barley lime that cools your palate now. I hope you are warm.
I have to find you.
There used to be so many people here. Friends, strangers, musicians and writers, artists who left their paintings and sculptures lying around. This was no Bohemia, but it felt that way. Madmen and children can become family too. We watched each other with careless eyes; we listened with our hopes and our fears guarding our hearts. How many dreams died along the way?
There are treasures to be unearthed amongst the dried leaves, amongst the fallen. There used to be chatter and conversations here, sad wine and potato chips; we were poor but we broke bread with one another like emperors, like saints; there used to be songs that were sung, music that was played, lives that were performed. I used to hear your voice like the breaking of dawn, calling out that morning has come.
This used to be happiness.
Morning has come. Rain pelts down. I have to find you. I have no idea where to start. Doesn’t matter. I used to be a young man. Didn’t have an idea then either. Except this one. That I would always love you.
No, that’s not true. It wasn’t I would always love you, no matter what we promised each other, no matter how earnest our vows. Truth is, I had believed that I would always have you. You’d always be here; we’d always be together, the days running into forever. Bohemia never disappears and a hundred melancholic poets will ever lament their losses in manic verse.
I won’t ever get this back, I know. There’s no returning sometimes. But I have to do this. I have to find you.