Blind.

There are pieces of you scattered around my life; they are reminders of the convictions I used to have, of the beliefs we used to share and the joint future we will never have.

I wish I could fool myself into complete and utter ignorance, to be able to forget the adulterated memories of what I thought was the truth; of the artificial heartbeats that fed an illusion of uncontrolled passion. I wish I could mend those wounds and heal the remnants of the things I know that were never real.

I can still touch the raw fragility of your skin underneath my fingers, the calmness you felt when I brushed the nape of your neck with my lips, always soothing and always comforting. I can still feel the trust you placed upon my actions at the early hours of dawn, inviting me to be bolder and to show you the depth of what you made me feel.

I was always scared to be blunt, to really tell you how I felt, because I absolutely feared the magnitude behind my emotions. I was never able to understand how a human vessel could contain so much admiration for another human being. I would’ve given you every single part of me, without choosing the best fragments of what was once the wholeness of my soul. It is now broken, and I cannot put it back together.

Wishing for something to be real with every drop of hope your body can muster isn’t enough to cheat a dream.

I sacrificed everything for you, but it was never enough. I kept throwing pieces of life at you, but there was always someone that made you fly higher than I ever could, even if I was the only one that had the necessary strength to catch you when you inevitably fell from your childish dreams.

It was humiliating, but I was always there. Unconditionally. In a way, I will always be.

The memories of your hair between my fingers and your lips against the entirety of my jawline; every reason for me to run is asphyxiated by the reduced space between the embrace of our bodies painfully demanding to be together.

I remember, so I can’t breathe, and I don’t think I need to.

I know that you still think of me, sometimes, and that you regret staying blind under the moonlight. I know that accepting that I’m gone is harder than what your broken mind allows you to, and that you wished that the situation had varied in the slightest. I wholeheartedly understand that you’re trying to find my presence somewhere else, in a place where love isn’t a risk to be taken, and life isn’t an obstacle to be fought.

I have discovered that you took my capacity to care for another person in your hands, you held it with a faint tremor, and you unwillingly smashed it into two, because the alternative made your mind crawl into a ball of unwavering fear.

I keep your love inside a drawer in my mind, protected by a shield of hope and silent tears of frustration, waiting for you to wake up and to ask me to come home. It doesn’t matter how many people walk between the synergy of our paths, it doesn’t matter how much time it takes for you to realize that what we had was the real deal, I will always be prepared for you to figure out the truth behind the years of emotional torture.

I understand the fear, but I don’t accept your reluctance. If it were easy, it would never be worth it.

I can still feel the beats of the music of our nights, the rhythm of our bodies dancing on to the darkness of our forbidden affection. The grip of your trembling hand holding mine and the light squeeze that promised me that everything would be okay. I remember and I don’t want to forget.

But my lips never touched yours and our emotions where never synchronized. I cannot fathom what you felt for me, because your actions were in juxtaposition with what I thought you felt, and it fucked my mind to the point that sanity felt wrong.

I don’t miss you, and I don’t think I ever will. I was comfortable with that you made me feel, and I’m sure that if we meet again I will be that person again, but I can’t let myself feel your absence because I don’t know how… and honestly, I don’t really care enough to learn.

I loved the way our bodies seldom touched, and I’ve realized that I’ve imagined the taste of your kisses, because you never cared deep enough for me to let me meet them. But that is honestly all right, because I don’t feel loss or regret at all, I feel release.

When I look back at what we experienced together, I often wonder how I could’ve felt for someone so unapologetically selfish and aware of the opinion of other people. It’s so contradictory to what I thought was true love!

I’ve discovered the truth now: it wasn’t love, it was lust… and sometimes, the physical beats the emotional in order to screw up the rational.

Sure, you’re pretty. You’re everything anyone could ever hope to meet in a possible soul mate, until you allow yourself to be known. You’re an agent of emotional destruction and chaos, an angel of heartbreak. But I truly believe that you can be redeemed, if only you could accept the things that make you real.

You hide underneath a veil of indifference and otherworldly powers of detachment, but you are after the same raw emotions that your human condition predisposes you to find in order to thrive and reach happiness. Yet, you still ignore the calling.

After all, there is something within my genetically cursed wiring that won’t let me lose hope in you, in your ability to regain your sight and accept the things that make you whole. I still have hope that the universe will set you in the right path, someday, and that I will still be emotionally available to catch you when you fall.

The clock is ticking, and the human heart can only withstand so much disappointment and jilt, because when a heart gets broken enough times, it regenerates into something new, and it expects a different force to make it beat the way it was always supposed to.

I am still here, waiting, feeding off the hope of smelling your proximity again, but soon the flame with die, and with it, the will to someday love you back.

Author's Note

Not sure if this is an essay, a poem or a story.