Sorrows of you

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. And I must confess you don’t intrude on my dreams too often.

Why should you? You are no abstract idea. You’re no fanciful fantasy of an idle mind so set in its patters of defiance and willfulness. You are no inexplicable want or lustful indulgence.

So, my dreams are safe from you, and all that is you. And even when you trespass on them, it is not you. Merely a wisp of your entity. Maligned from your true being. A faux shadow created  in your image.

My consciousness is safe from you too, for here I exercise control over you. I keep you away. I shut you out from anything mine. I look away, I 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 all that. For you are the sorrows of my young mind, and you command it into inaction and you glorify self-pity.

I do not think about the things that were, the dwindling tresses of ephemeral happiness that you brought me. The joy of marred love, of 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. Those thoughts are poisoned and full of deceptions.

For I know of nothing with certainty. I do not know of the love that I bear for you. I doubt the very existence of love itself; or view it as highly immoral and self-serving at other times.

How I love to hate the idea of it, while claiming it doesn’t exist. How I revel in the contradiction of my own being.

Yet you’re so much more than ideals of love. You have taken a life of your own. So, I bury you deep inside of me. Devoid you of light, of water, of anything that might grant to you the gift of life. I still feel your muted heart beat against mine. As if the rhythm of the two were intertwined. Like a vine that sprouts from a 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. I have learned to like the bittersweet taste of the wine of regret.

I refuse to feel  sorry for myself, my grief, the sorrows of my young heart. I accept the lingering sadness of you. Embedded deep within my core, a part of me. I guard it with great jealously, for it one thing of mine that truly sprouts from you.

How you tug at my heartstrings. A tug so painful in the cavity of chest. As you memories pull me apart piece by piece to sick delight. A jigsaw pulled apart. Never to be complete again because it misses a part. The part you claimed for yourself, 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 perhaps 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, 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. Uttered with reverence, with undulated happiness, of the joy of our 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, with only these things in mind.

Of the passion of a kiss. So very sweet and mellow. A kiss of innocence, laced only with select tendrils of lust.

All my sadness matters 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 unaware of my morbid existence. Of my requiem of uncertain love. Of th sorrows of my dying heart. The bird goes on.

And the earth still moves and time flows still. Oh, how I hate time. It blurs the memory of your touch that I try so hard to preserve. I want to remember you down to each tiny detail. I want my existence to be a memoir to you. Alas, time, the slayer of all magics, even yours.

They say time heals, it doesn’t. Time kills and in time it will kill my love for you, just as surely as time will reap this soul of mine. Leaving behind only the tiniest of remnant of something not whole. Of imperfect love. The imperfect, uncertain love with which I have loved you, so very sincerely.

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