9th June, 1870
To Charles,
I watched the pride in your face as you walked the streets, your head held high. The spark in your eyes was mesmerizing, dimming the world around me. From then on, you had my invariable love. I followed you everywhere, every step of my life, trying so very hard to have a constant glimpse of you. It might sound lame, as I let you know this but I did truly love you, from the very first sight.
You were just a journalist when I first saw you and to my very dismay, I learnt you were married to Catherine Hogarth. They told me you were a writer and that you wrote wondrously. I read “The Pickwick Papers” and it led to my first sight into your world. I continued reading your works earnestly, frantically trying to find the real you between the lines. I wanted to take your each word to heart, wanted it to stay there reminding me always about you. I read your Oliver Twist with hunger hoping that finally my search would end. As I read Great Expectations, I almost fantasized Pip’s feelings for Estella was meant for me, the unseen love of your life.
But not once did you turn to look back at the woman at the end of the street, her hair flowing hopelessly in the wind, a tear of love in her eye, a broken yet beating heart. When you separated from Catherine I deeply hoped you would extend your hand to me. Alas, my poor heart! You found Ellen Ternan in 1850.
Not one day goes by without me dreaming of leaning onto your bosom. I continued to believe you were mine, well what was there to believe, it was the truth. But why had you never written about me? The lady in love with you. I could not be Estella, for I was not so cold hearted. Was I Dorrit? Helen? But then how would you have written, when you never actually set your eyes upon me.
For thirty-four years, I have lived with you through your books, not once having the chance to feel your shadow let alone you touch and presence. Ohh…my Charles!
Life is made of ever so partings welded together.
Its 9th June 1870, they say you are dead. I refuse to believe it, after all how can you? With me still alive? But your books no longer speak to me as they used to, I no longer feel your love. Something is wrong Charles; I can feel it. I think it is time I left too.
Here I write a letter to you, my love, knowing well that you would never read it. Ahh! My lost love. Finally we shall meet, in an eternal world.
From,
Your love.
To Charles,
I watched the pride in your face as you walked the streets, your head held high. The spark in your eyes was mesmerizing, dimming the world around me. From then on, you had my invariable love. I followed you everywhere, every step of my life, trying so very hard to have a constant glimpse of you. It might sound lame, as I let you know this but I did truly love you, from the very first sight.
You were just a journalist when I first saw you and to my very dismay, I learnt you were married to Catherine Hogarth. They told me you were a writer and that you wrote wondrously. I read “The Pickwick Papers” and it led to my first sight into your world. I continued reading your works earnestly, frantically trying to find the real you between the lines. I wanted to take your each word to heart, wanted it to stay there reminding me always about you. I read your Oliver Twist with hunger hoping that finally my search would end. As I read Great Expectations, I almost fantasized Pip’s feelings for Estella was meant for me, the unseen love of your life.
But not once did you turn to look back at the woman at the end of the street, her hair flowing hopelessly in the wind, a tear of love in her eye, a broken yet beating heart. When you separated from Catherine I deeply hoped you would extend your hand to me. Alas, my poor heart! You found Ellen Ternan in 1850.
Not one day goes by without me dreaming of leaning onto your bosom. I continued to believe you were mine, well what was there to believe, it was the truth. But why had you never written about me? The lady in love with you. I could not be Estella, for I was not so cold hearted. Was I Dorrit? Helen? But then how would you have written, when you never actually set your eyes upon me.
For thirty-four years, I have lived with you through your books, not once having the chance to feel your shadow let alone you touch and presence. Ohh…my Charles!
Life is made of ever so partings welded together.
Its 9th June 1870, they say you are dead. I refuse to believe it, after all how can you? With me still alive? But your books no longer speak to me as they used to, I no longer feel your love. Something is wrong Charles; I can feel it. I think it is time I left too.
Here I write a letter to you, my love, knowing well that you would never read it. Ahh! My lost love. Finally we shall meet, in an eternal world.
From,
Your love.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Leaving a comment? You are awesome!
Or you could just say hi! You are still awesome!