January 20, 2018 § Leave a comment

Maybe I can never love anyone the same ever again. Maybe I will never let go of my pretences, and just lie silently holding hands. Maybe I will never be the same again, but a part of me has, and it always will be.

There’s no love like love unrequited. Hands held, a rueful smile, and a knowing that it will never be. Those who believe in other lifetimes hope for a someday, while others like me are left with dreams, and yearning for realities in worlds other, unlike here, much like ours.

And then there is love, that which has been ours forever, lived and left, and broken as loud as a shattering glass, as cursed as a shattering glass—a million pieces, a mess—never to be put together again, seven years or hundred, lifetimes or forevers.

I don’t know what you crave, but I crave those moments where our silences was all that is heard, where our heartbeats, never quite matching strides, in a grace of their own marched into a future unknown—never bleak, but happy, not a loud firework display at a riverfront, but the breeze at a top of a mountain peak.

I want love, and I want to love unafraid, of consequences, of reason, of action, but most of all myself. I wish to be that me when I with you, when I could look up ahead know you were there beside me, know that no fear is too great to be overcome, that my mind is mine, and the love will outlive my arrogance, outlive my anger, outlive all that I felt it wasn’t, outlive you, outlive me, outlive us.

Maybe I miss us more than I miss you, or me. I hate good morning messages ever since—I can’t get myself to type it the first moment after waking up to someone who isn’t you. I miss knowing you are at the other end of the call, seeing you as you are on a computer screen—I watch you sleep, like a child who believes innately that all the world is there to be.

I wish I could love another. No love can be the same as another, but love is far too needy. I can’t close my eyes and jump, I can’t hold on to a hug longer and believe the warmth will forever live.

We meet as strangers, and part as people who know all too well. I don’t trust words as much as I used to trust, though I love them all the same. I want our silences, and I want them to be broken by your whispers and murmurs. I want you to call me only what you did, and hold on…

A word is all that it takes to set free, a word is all that is needed to imprison yourself in misery. I may have chosen the latter, but now I know the other is better.



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