Your stories form part of my day, as if it was coffee and my life runs on caffeine so bad I cannot start a single task without it. But this is my story, and in this part, you are the legal addictive stimulant, and I crave for you the moment I wake up. And your stories comprise of adventures I am terrified to ellaborate. There will always be this girl with the most beautiful smile, like they were oceans ready to swallow your heart whole, and yours ever willing to be devoured; or that girl who stole your heart over your shared love for toys and robots, and despite its lack of a heart, yours throbbed and longed for her and yet she shattered them into pieces. You pick up the fragments after every crash, and you do it over and over again. But now you say it was over, I want to know if you were able to patch up all the pieces and if light could enter the cracks now, perhaps, I could, too. But I make my own imaginary competition, as if I have to fight for my right to be there, to have my own perfect spot inside your heart. That’s what I have been used to; trying to win, fighting for my place; something I wish I didn’t have to do this time.
Everyone has their burden to carry, and mine screams out like huge cymbals, banging loudly cautioning anyone who attempts to go near to keep their distance, the flame is burning too brightly, it will scorch and scar, and when they realize the damage, it might be too late. My baggage is a duffle bag filled with the carcasses of my broken relationship. I have spent ten years of my life trying to work out something I eventually had to give up because it was too much, and I had too little left to give. My love has been spent and exhausted until I ran broke. Now I am left with nothing but a sorry suitcase filled with memories and remorse, and I cannot afford to drag you into this pit of bitterness and angst.
There are cozy restaurants I would’ve wanted to try with you, coffee shops we would’ve spent countless hours talking about movies, books, our faith, love, and the stars. There are wines we would’ve have tasted together, mountains we would’ve climbed or trips we would’ve taken; by this time, I would’ve been looking straight into your dark brown eyes telling you how much love I have for you in my heart. But instead, we talk about our bodies, how your hands could exquisitely explore mine and how our lips seal the words we should’ve spoken. On cold nights, you long for warmth in the form of arms and hands reaching out to you, and I long for your words, your eyes, and your voice. It has since drawn an invisible line between us and only our hearts could see the thorns peaking through those lines. Each time we get closer to crossing it, we change our minds.
Sadness is more beautiful than joy. I say this because I have had happy days, blue skies were like canopies over my bed as I sleep. But it did not include you. You stepped into my world during my sadness and you wiped every tear dry. In my despair, it was when I found you, and you lull the ghosts in my head putting them to sleep and I find comfort in your warm chest when my world is broken into pieces. I would not trade happiness over my tragedy, if it meant finding you.
You talk of the future, and it makes me wonder if you would still want me there; because you are in mine.