I want to get my hands on her

Especially for Tinashe

Along comes this lady teeming with all sorts of beautiful currents. She is millions and millions kinds of fineness. Looking like what I always thought she would look… you know, like heaven. I want to get my hands on her and I refuse to remember the last time I got burnt. Fresh woman delivered to me to soothe my teenage grief. I have been rewarded her.
We have just met and there is always a chance to talk to you, Tinashe. I decide to be friends with you, to temper it, to know you better, for you to built trust in me; trust is a plant of slow growths, I had been told. And I reasoned, all love springs from the same soils. And we have been talking to each other for over a year now.
I now wish I had been writing to you these letters from the start of it so that now I wouldn’t be talking of some of the things in past tense. If it was yester year I could have written you a tome of these letters, me eking out the last few drops of perfume to anoint the letters I wrote to you. Now, I cannot offer you the memory; I will offer you my love.
If there is one thing I have forgotten to tell you so far is that I am lost and in love with the blaze of your smile, for the flowers unfolding in the heavy shadows of the space around it, and your wide eyes looking longingly into my eyes. Your voice, a smooth bell, calling me from the inside!
Our eyes are merely opened inside us when we behold beauty.
If there is one thing that is the truth is that sometimes I don’t just know when to say the truth in time.
If rain makes a song I hear in my heart, what have we harmonized in our soft containers.
When you discovered me you transcended me into the divine, you made me extend into you. Tinashe, the strings of my soul flew into your embrace.
The edges of the summer, our lungs filling up with it to the breaking point, looking up at the sure, quiet summer blue, my heart wants to dance, to follow the playful steps of a summer dance, to perform a beautiful score.
Now, the ghost of us visits me at nights, we seem to unleave each other. And I have become a sleepwalker patrolling your shores in the dark nights.
I hold you in me, like a germ cell Immaculate Conception fetus never to be born. How will I explain it to myself, to you, that I am nobody but the body of you? What will become you or me, now that your story is in my body, speaking through me? Tell me another story, I will write you another letter.
This is my home- where love is like logs crackling in a wood burning stove, offering our hearts heat to warm us. This is my home. And this is what it’s like to see it through my eyes.
Be my valentine


Written by tendai mwanaka (0)

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#MuwadoLoveLetter To The One I Left Behind