I think it is difficult for me to let go of your beautiful eyes staring at me; the way that playful smile lingers near your soft cheeks when you quietly call out to me for the forbidden things, that you and I do when no one is looking. Your voice, husky and almost rude; it often sounds like a comfort or privilege over the phone. How dearly you would calm my nerves, when I would feel like my chest will implode with worries of not now but tomorrow, the day after & so on.
You, beautiful unknown soul that resonates my own tune in most horrors. Our love for hedonism, childlike glee in looking at the drudgery of common folk, a shared sense of prestige in the flukes, or the near misses. When you laugh, it’s hard not to follow suit – it’s like that nasty bird in the dead of night. I wonder why you run after me like a mother and knock sense into me like a father.
You sting me like a poison, so strong. You push against me like a force of nature, edging me toward acceptance & delusion together. In your baby palms, I feel the icy cold touch of lies and your inhuman eyes sometimes I cannot read no matter how hard I try. Sometimes your smile is inviting, and when I try to come close you run away. Like a cat you hide behind the cigarette smoke, peering at me with that sarcastic smile and I feel naked suddenly.
There are so many little things I mull over in your absent presence, how swiftly you take charge of the sweat on my brow.
Your feminine grace, your masculine pride runs through me like the incense of a musty wooden bookcase with stories I am dying to read.
Often in the silence of the night, when no one is looking your presence is only that of a body silently stationed next to my trembling hands racing on the keyboard like they would want to get past the future of impending disasters in a few keystrokes. How it is to be, that you’re only a story – a riddle I sing to myself, when the agony of my untouched soul screams to be heard. I pacify the little child this heart is, by spinning the wheel and making that golden yarn to tie the little notes of missing chapters from my life.
Here you are, away in another world or another reality. Your words remain, your stupid jokes remain and so does your bloated sense of amazement at how I feel about myself. You are truly the forbidden fruit, I don’t wish to seek. How adorable would be though, I wonder…to lie in the comfort of your checkered arm, discussing what life is, what happiness could be. Your life ends at the last period I placed in the notebook from 2014.