**To Rosalie Rutherford,**
Dear Rosie,
I love the thought of us both looking up at the same sky—me tracing constellations with my fingertips, you wrapped in lavender’s embrace. Maybe distance isn’t quite so vast when we share the same stars. One day, I hope we can lie in a field together, with the scent of lavender in the air and the stars stretching endless above us. I think that would be the kind of quiet that fills instead of empties.
Your words about Vincent stay with me. The way you speak of him, of those you've lost, it’s like you’re weaving them into the fabric of the world around you. Maybe love is a kind of magic like that—something that never really leaves, just changes shape. I hope, wherever they are, they feel it.
I wish I could send you my voice, too. Maybe someday, I’ll find a way. But until then, I hope my words carry even a fraction of the warmth yours give me.
For now, I’m in the Free Marches. I don’t know how long I’ll stay—long enough to catch my breath, I suppose. The road still calls, but I find I don’t want to wander quite as much when I know there’s a home waiting, even if I’m not ready to step through its doors just yet.
I’ll write again soon, Rosie. Until then, take care of yourself. And if you look up at the stars tonight, know that I’m looking too.
Yours, always,
Asha
Dear Rosie,
I love the thought of us both looking up at the same sky—me tracing constellations with my fingertips, you wrapped in lavender’s embrace. Maybe distance isn’t quite so vast when we share the same stars. One day, I hope we can lie in a field together, with the scent of lavender in the air and the stars stretching endless above us. I think that would be the kind of quiet that fills instead of empties.
Your words about Vincent stay with me. The way you speak of him, of those you've lost, it’s like you’re weaving them into the fabric of the world around you. Maybe love is a kind of magic like that—something that never really leaves, just changes shape. I hope, wherever they are, they feel it.
I wish I could send you my voice, too. Maybe someday, I’ll find a way. But until then, I hope my words carry even a fraction of the warmth yours give me.
For now, I’m in the Free Marches. I don’t know how long I’ll stay—long enough to catch my breath, I suppose. The road still calls, but I find I don’t want to wander quite as much when I know there’s a home waiting, even if I’m not ready to step through its doors just yet.
I’ll write again soon, Rosie. Until then, take care of yourself. And if you look up at the stars tonight, know that I’m looking too.
Yours, always,
Asha
02-08-2025, 09:23 AM
