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29/08/23. Dear You,
Most nights, I am too exhausted to form any coherent thought, too tired to think. On nights like those, I sleep like a baby. Sleep that is devoid of dreams, deprived of colours or of aroma...On nights like those, when my muscles twitch and strain (for the day has taken its toll on them), my mind swims in darkness. Darkness that is alluring and at once, terrifying.
But tonight is not like most other nights. For today, everytime a man (or were they animals? I can't tell) climbed atop me, everytime someone pushed into me relentlessly, I thought of you.
When you had come in through the door, a couple of nights ago, your hands twitching and trembling (you were nervous, I could tell), the air in this brothel had changed. Strangely so. You had seemed so out of place what with your hair, oiled and pushed back, your spectacles (that were definitely too large for your face) slipping off to the edge of your nose ever so slightly. And a chuckle had escaped the brim of my lips, "Mister, you don't belong here!!"
You had chosen me then, amongst all the other girls here, you had shyly looked towards me. Perhaps I had known then. That you were different.
That night, you didn't make love to me. Nor did you treat me like a whore. As midnight gave way to twilight, as the black veil of the sky lifted to reveal specks of orange and yellow glitter, you had talked of life. Your life. You had talked about feelings, loneliness and melancholy. Feelings well-known to me...You had talked of your craving, your yearning for companionship.
And I had wanted to run my fingers through your hair, to put my lips to your eyes, then to the valley of your collar-bone. I had wanted for your lips to claim my lips as theirs, for you to claim me as yours...
So tonight, I write this letter. For sometimes, feelings need to be penned, than uttered. For even though, the aphrodisiac of your eyes render me drunk, it doesn't lend courage to my heart. Nor does it rid me of my shame. Shame because I sell my body, shame because I perhaps don't deserve you. And fear....fear that you'll never come back, fear that this letter will forever remain between the folds of my low-cut blouses and knee-length skirts, fear that night after night, day after day, I will have to satisfy men...men that aren't you, men that will never be you.
So tonight, I write this letter. In hopes that you'll come tomorrow, or the day after, or perhaps a month later. I don't know. But I write. Because this letter, stained with ink and tears, (perhaps one day with blood), is my confession to you. And a plea too.
So come back, dear....For I must atleast know your name. And until then, I will revel in the memory of your cologne and the soft touch of your fingertips....
With love, Your night companion
ns 15.158.61.41da2
