I try not to dream about you, though I must confess I am rarely in control and seldom aware of what goes on in there. For you are no abstract idea, or fanciful fantasy of an idle mind so set in its patters of defiance and willfulness. You are no inexplicable want or lustful indulgence.
No, my dreams are save from you, and all that is you. And even when you intrude on them, it is not you. But a wisp of your entity. Maligned from your true being. A shadow not created in your image.
My consciousness is safe from you too, for here I exercise control over you. I keep you away, shut you out from anything mine, I look away, pretend not to notice even as the truth of realization stares dead into my eyes: That I miss you, so very much.
I try not to think about that, for you are the sorrows of my young mind, and you command it into inaction and glorify self-pity. I try not think that about the things that were, the dwindling tresses of ephemeral happiness that you brought me, of marred love and imperfect kisses.
And I don’t think about what might have been. It all plays out in my head if I let it get hold of me as if it were on silver screen. Of the many things that we would do for the first time. I try not to go there. That happiness is poisoned and full of deceptions. For I know of nothing with certainty. Not of the love that I bear for you, because I doubt the existence of love itself, and view it as highly immoral and self-serving at other times.
How I love to hate something that with all plausibility might not exist. How I revel in the contradiction of my own being.
I bury you, deep inside of me. Devoid you of light, of water, of anything that might grant to you the gift of live. I still feel your muted heart beat against mine, as if the rhythm of the two were intertwined. Like a vine that sprouts from forgotten corner of creation, taking hold, weighing heavy on this young heart of mine. The sorrows of it so amplified.
I feel, not sorry for what I have done, though in all sense of my morality, I have committed a great crime and an even greater sin. And I feel not sorry for myself, my grief, the sorrows of my young heart and mind. I accept the lingering sadness of you, imbedded so deep within my core, a part of me. I guard it jealously, for it one thing of mine that sprouts truly from you.
How you tug at my heartstrings, a tug so painful in the cavity of chest. As you pull me apart piece by piece to your sick delight. A jigsaw pulled apart, never to be completed again because it misses a part, the part you claimed to be your own, leaving behind only a heart that can never be whole.
The sadness that so incompletes me, and yet gives meaning to my wretched existence, that otherwise, and even with it, remains devoid of any true meaning. What are you? A beautiful distraction, down to each freckle on your back. An amalgamation of thoughts, realities, refutes and of the closest thing, that I know of, to love.
Of your name that slips off this tongue of mine, as it were only made to be uttered by it, with reverence with undulated happiness, of the joy of meeting. Of your hands, so very incompatible by mechanism with mine, so very different in their intricacies, yet they hold on to mine, in the most perfectly delightful way imaginable.
Of how your body, so very different from mine, responds to me. To my words, to my touch, to the way I look at you. As if it were made, only with these things in mind.
Of the passion of a kiss. So very sweet. A kiss of innocence, only with select tendrils of lust.
All this matter very little in the grand scheme of things. For the sun still comes out each morning, and the morning bird sings in apparent delight so very unaware of my morbid existence, of my requiem of uncertain love, of the dear sorrows of my dying heart. It goes on, for the earth still rotates, and time flows, oh how I hate it. It blurs the memory of your touch that I try so very hard to preserve, to remember down to the tiniest detail. Time, slayer of all magics, even yours.
They say it heals, it doesn’t, time kills and perhaps in time my love for you will die, just as surely as it will reap this life of mine. Leaving behind mayhap tiniest of remnant of true love, with which I have loved you, so very sincerely.