Because {I Don't Know You, Yet}

Because {I Don't Know You, Yet}

by: Sara Vogt

June 11, 2013

 

You aren't here.

 

I don't know your face,

Yet.

 

For years & years, up until

This very moment, I have

Thought of that as a bad

Thing.

 

But,

What if it's

Not?

 

Because I don't know you,

Yet,

I have the time to give

Myself to my God more

Fully (when I take the

Opportunity).

 

Because I don't know you,

Yet,

I don't have to ask or tell

You everywhere I go or

All the things that I do with

My day.

 

Because I don't know you,

Yet,

I can be as anti-social &

Uncommunicative as I

Want & not risk hurting

Your {tender} ego.

 

Because I don't know you,

Yet,

I can imagine you as anyone,

Who is anywhere,

Doing anything.

 

Because I don't know you,

Yet,

My giddy heart springs at

All of the unknown future

That we will have together.

 

Because I don't know you,

Yet,

I want you so badly that I

Pray each & every day that

We will find each other

Soon.

 

Because I don't know you,

Yet.

Week 1 of 52 - After the Door Shuts

     After the door shuts & the footsteps die, the quietness of the room rushes in.

     The french doors are open, allowing the heat of the summer as well as the sounds of the evening to pervade the room.

     She sits, silently, hands folded on her knees and one leg draped over the other, staring bravely out the doors.  Her eyes see nothing.

     The shock numbs her to all else.  While the view she beholds is magnificant, her eyes are blind except to the thoughts rushing through her head.

     On the patterned, glass table beside her sits a vase full of gorgeous, orange roses and underneath, the letter.

     Ink on wood.  That's all it is.  But, oh, what a difference that ink pressed to wood has made.

     With shaking hands, she pushes the vase aside and carefully picks the letter up.

     No, she doesn't want to read the words again.  One time would be enough for anyone, forever.  But their magnetism draws her in as, unbidden, her eyes find their way to the scrawled letters.

     Before she can feed the ache by re-reading the words however, a noise from the french doors causes her to look up.

     Without warning, she sees the black, shiny object pointed at her.  Before she can form a sound, the trigger is pulled and she falls back against the sofa, the hand holding the letter falling jerkily, dropping the words to the floor.

     The figure wielding the gun walks slowly over to her, no sign of agitation on their smooth face.  With one deft motion, they reach down and scoop the pages off the floor.

     After the pages are carefully folded, the figure places them securely in a pocket and walks back out the french doors into the hot, heavy stillness of the summer evening.

     The quiet slips back down over the room like a veil being draped across the face of a beautiful woman.  Nothing has changed, yet everything is different.