I often wonder if words are enough; especially, when it comes to telling someone something important. The dilemma is funny on good days, and destructively agonising on worse ones.
Would you believe me if I said that when I sip my coffee in the morning, I often go back to the day you stole a sip out of my cup and winced at how bitter you thought it was? Would you believe me when I said I sometimes winced just the same, out of love or perhaps, nostalgia, for I adored that moment more than I have ever adored a cup of coffee alone?
The memory of that wince and the laughter that followed is warmer than the most scalding cup of coffee I could ever brew, even in the most wintry winter. Would you believe me or would you shrug it off as some words a hack of a writer wrote for you, or perhaps, himself?
I wonder when I’m rambling, do you hear what I mean or do you hear a few words and nothing else? I wish I could be as patient and precise in speech as I am with this piece of paper, but I talk fast, and I stutter, and I mumble. It’s not my fault, however. Perhaps, not entirely. I fumble when I think of you.
I have to keep up with my racing thoughts or else, I’d lose the chance of telling you how I could see everything I ever wanted to in those dark eyes of yours. But, I stumble, like I have stumbled countless times when I look at you, like I stumbled the time you stood across the street and I crossed it to meet you halfway.
It’s an interesting expression—meeting halfway—isn’t it? It assumes the people between the words to be moving towards each other. Perhaps, that is why words are never enough. People were seldom moving towards each other. On most days, they were stuck around cups of coffee now gone cold, busy streets that once were, and days that have long since passed. I reckon that’s it, that is why most words fail.
Words failed because on some days, people weren’t moving towards each other; and on most days, they were stuck in time, never moving at all.