By Ahmed Altaher

Only solace is felt when your voice is heard. The nature in which its tranquil reverberations hum an eloquent sense of ease, encouraging harmonious stimulation within senses. A soothing sort of bliss in succession, euphoric vibrations course throughout sensibility—the frequency bearing identicality to a euphonic synchronicity of several small bells’ sweet-sounding chimes. How fitting for a lovely belle like yourself.

Enthralled, enamored, refusing to depart from this dream, as I contentedly remain struck with an affinity even divine opulence cannot transcend. The sole dream indulgence accepts, accentuating subconscious disregard of awareness as bewitchment levitates me toward the entrancing sound of your empyrean enchantment. Mitigation of traumas entailing tragedy and sorrow ensues—the effective remedy obtained from your alleviating existence. It must be why I refuse awakening…

With your descent from the heavens gazed upon, as crepuscular rays of gleaming light cast an enveloping silhouette upon my stupefied stature, I feel myself serenely sinking within the ripple echoing your vocals.

Erased of my past’s several afflictions, I remain finding it as miraculous as your disposition. Sitting beside me, you attentively listened to my harrowing stories. I hadn’t been thinking during my deliverances. Even in this dream—whether a prolonged visualization or a perpetual slumber replaying the same preferred memory—I find myself vehemently fixated upon your countenance.

My attention to detail—an impassioned admiration centering you—deemed unsurpassable. Met with facets of flawless clarity, it was as though your physical body stood within the expanse of my flaring grin. The sparkling benitoites of diamond-studded oceans contained within purely pristine sclerae, complemented by their hue’s peacefulness. The collision of lightning and earth in volumized silk, styled in a bun and sharing likeness and animation with the shade and fluorescence of a brownish-golden beryl. The unblemished polish of a soft hand’s rose-beige-colored skin gently intertwining its fingers around mine.

Countlessly replayed, I graciously endure the multitude of swarming goosebumps bursting throughout my body repeatedly—an unrelenting reaction to such a phenomenon.

Incapable of expressing and describing that unbound feeling of rapture, stored in treasured nostalgia, a coalescing synergy of our affection was discerned to be far more intensive than imagined. The blaze of passion, the tenderness of warmth, and the cessation of time—a moment I would believe myself sanctified to live forevermore.

Prior to that unforgettable experience, you sought ‌the reason behind my hesitancy to close my eyes, open my ears, and allow your melody to pacify me. You didn’t force me. You comforted, then healed the continually opening wound from angst’s unsuppressed damage. You succeeded. Captured within the beguilement of incessant happiness, I now only acknowledge your attendance as the cynosure.

Perhaps that’s why thoughts of you remain unremitting, and this dream must be replayed—being the only way I may behold your luminosity and hear your voice. The art that bestows its charmingly aesthetic pigmentation to my world. And the song that beams its resonation of soulful quintessence into my spirit, gracing me with the godsend of your love song’s captivating tune.

I refuse to be informed of the length. Allow it to play, if possible, repeatedly—forever. I never wish to hear it end. But… I hear the subtle change. The fading of tone. The realization engenders apprehension. Now the bliss becomes trepidation, as I struggle to force myself to enjoy the final moments. I’ve always loathed endings, but no beginning lasts eternally. I had hoped you would, though. You and your song—the duet that has left my wit spellbound in the reverie sung so hypnotically as my heart is left ensnared by the insignificant beat between chorus and verse.

I’ve wondered how many times I’ve experienced your song solely through remembrance. How long has it been since the last performance? How much longer until that day? I-I… I don’t understand. The length of my stories proudly provides boundless acclaim when you’re the topic, so…

Am I sounding selfish?

I see… Yes, that’s right… Y-You’re…no longer here…

You haven’t been here…in so long, and you’re… You’re—

I know… I’ve known.

It’s my reality.

You and your melody, radiating the loveliness of such an ethereal aura, have no intention of returning…do you?

The meanings masking each clef were none more than my own fabricated definitions, refusing to believe sight’s discernment of the written truth. Auditory perception abandoned consciousness. Sight, neglected. Reality, blinded by delusion.

But I see now.

Your melody had been taken for granted. Its enrapturing and lustrous resonance tuned out by ears lacking cognizance of its uniqueness. You only wished to be the cause for jubilant praise, so you’d be granted the feeling of being special once more. But… I only wish to inform you—

I wish for nothing more than for you to recognize, with or without appreciation, your melody is—and always will be—wholeheartedly and eternally special…

I had known of your negligence while I had blindingly veiled mine. I listened to your song—beautifully performed… The sound’s incitement of elation. My gratitude recognizes no bounds. Yet, I still professed that the sorrowful words, voiced for another who refused to listen, were a suggestion for me, so I would never allow my ears to deafen upon receiving the impression of your melody… But that was the delusion of the future I had written for us.

Maybe I’ve always seen it. Maybe I’ve only been acting blind to it. Maybe luck believed it possessed a greater likelihood of success against the slim chance of you and your melody’s return. Maybe… I heard my own meaning to your song.

Is this the ending to my love story?

But…

Right… Well, perhaps the next endeavor may witness me as the protagonist.

May I behold the culmination of…happiness?

Perhaps the rare adoration is purely obtained when discovered through my‌self.

I accept that…

And you will, one day, see that…as I attempt to—only for a short moment—reminisce on the tune of a forgotten melody.