Is it possible?

Light slants personably across my desk, draping warmly over my elbow and onto the floor. It glints too, off the finish of your guitar, which I laid yesterday in the center of my room. I gaze at it as I write, or attempt to write, a letter to you. The only word I have scratched onto my paper so far is Dear. And even that I hesitate over, uncertain if I am still allowed to call you that. Now I dip my pen gently into the ink, letting dark pearls drip slowly from the tip. And I write:

Is it possible...

- and I suppose dear, that you are the only one who knows the answer to this-

...that you still love me?

I have already confessed. Now my heart feels like the wavering cobweb suspended in the corner of my window- uncertain if it has been abandoned. I leave the web there because I appreciate the resemblance.

I turn around in my chair. The rosewood of your guitar begs my fingers to run across it's neck again, but I do not want to give in to the desire until I know your answer. Slowly, I tug my eyes away from it. It is only an instrument after all, it should not be so hard.

Outside, the leaves have begun to curl and saturate with warm colors in the cool air. They swirl in lovely spirals. The season reminds me of the aroma of your steamy, morning coffee that fogs your glasses when you try to drink it too early. I decide to add two more words to the letter:

If so...

And there again I hesitate. If you do still love me, then what else is there to question? I scratch the words out- the first question is the only one I really want to ask you.

I ease open the desk drawer, letting it's protesting screech ring out into the empty house. I begin again on a fresh sheet of paper, not wanting you to see my conflicting, uncertain thoughts. We could be like that, you know. Like a new peice of paper. I think that that is really what I am asking you. Can we?

As I slip the letter with the single question -written to Dear, signed Yours- into its envelope, I wonder- is it your little secret? Will I be declined an honest, straightforward answer?

And then the letter is in the mailbox.

My slippered feet pad up the stairs again, and I pick up your guitar, dear. I think that if you love me, you will not mind if I play it, and if you do not, then I won't care about what you have to say on the subject. So, now I am playing your song on your guitar, and I will probably still be sitting here, singing hoarsely the day your response arrives. And if it never does...?

Well I do not think about that. While the question is still unanswered-

Is it possible that you still love me?

-I may cling to the hope that you do.

Song: Quelqu'un m'a dit - Carla Bruni