Tonight, the bartender asked me “what’s your poison?”, and I wanted to respond with your name. But the truth is, they have yet to learn how to bottle love, how to create a drug that’s potent enough to mimic the intoxicating addiction of another person’s heart, beating in time with yours.
So I will settle for a bottle of tequila for now, and a hangover strong enough to help me forget selected memories, even if only for a night.
There is nothing romantic about a love that used to be, a love that happened, and then ended, just like everything else in the world. People often romanticize tragedy, like the kiss that almost was, the “maybe” that could have been but will remain a “what if” forever. There is nothing beautiful about something that once was, but died. Ended. Failed.
Through clenched teeth and failing knees, my soul resiliently hums a symphony of hope. I know my heart will heal, fear will loosen its icicle claws. But for now, each keystroke soothes and revives the tender ears of my forlorn heart, as it listens to the tune of a humble song that calloused feet keep pressing on.
I’m not the type who takes a lot of selfies. Today, he took a hundred horrible pictures of me, and said he loved each one. I could feel that he meant it. Is this how it is to h e a l ? Unlearning panic and believing when a person says they won’t leave you, having the courage to trust. Again. I just have to learn to stop being scared of saying that.
I hand him the pathetic me on a plate: the clingy, demanding, hot-tempered version of myself, gift-wrapped in insecurities. And he opens his arms, closes his eyes, cradles my stubbornness like a child, and hugs and kisses me blindly. That is what love does, he says, that is w h a t l o v e i s.
The only flowers that last f o r e v e r are the ones you pick and press in between the pages of your favorite book, where another story, not in ink, is kept sacred, of a love you were too scared to l e t b l o o m.
My fingertips yearn for the hard and the soft of you. My mouth waters for the sweet, salty taste of your lips. I am forever longing for the burn of your kisses against my skin, for the way you fit against me, inside me. I am half crazed from wanting you.
I thought of you today. For what we were, and what we weren’t, for what we could have been and what we could never be, for what you changed in me and for what will never change. I cried because I knew you and because I only knew certain parts of you, because I loved you and never got the chance to.