Once upon a time, I went somewhere, everywhere, and I held my sight on the still horizon. Stained with some lost crumbling clouds that kept nothing inside them, dry with a chance of making me feel something, and yes, I’d feel whatever they dared to shower upon me whenever I’d stare back at the sky, a loving fool.
I used to be like that once, twice, certainly more times than I’ve spelt the word “love” on this blog. Countless moments served me well for I felt close to someone I wasn’t meant to reach, someone who carved inside me a hole made to be filled with smirks of innocent admiration and eventual tears squeezed from a heart built on joyful emotion. More often than I can tell, I’d be like that, grinning to a tree, its vegetating presence, passively lucky enough to experience the tireless expression of a man in love, and beyond that, the savory character of someone who could clearly understand the meaning of such a beautiful state of being. Being in love is ultimately amazing, an amazement big enough to spit on top of the reminiscent soon to be caused pain only to dilute it; feeling it drain me as I inhaled the green breath that said tree offered me, in return, for my disposition to share what she, presumably, can’t feel.
I’ve done it, the wandering, maybe purposefully. I aimed to feel all I’ve grown to be capable of experiencing, I got used to this sort of exquisiteness in thinking. Beauty as I saw it, it was initially contained inside her, then it overflowed to sink me, up until I learned to hover over the meaningless and scarce words she’d direct to me, tired of feeding my growling hunger for her pink halo.
For long I gladly drifted, glided on the surface of a person I’ve created for me, purely adequate and willing to enroll me with her tongue, kiss my spite to belong, turning it into a silent dependent manner of interpreting love. And I was not mistaken to think like that, love is supposed to taste like that, astringent to a degree it burns you as you need more. Pointlessly demanding a development of what remains unsaid yet doomed to smell like this forever, an unaltered stinking aroma of words and smiles and warm kisses on the cheek you still grasp, to avoid letting go of this infirmity you consider yours only. So you let them rotten in your back pocket, the only place in where you can ignore them though you are destined to carry what’s left of her, there, forever.
Once upon a time, not long ago, I went somewhere, everywhere, and I held my sight on the still horizon only to perceive that all I could not clearly see… all those things were meant to never be made real.