Is this what experts call unrequited love? Falling for the idea, the fantasy of someone? Or am I being melodramatic, a bit ridiculous at this point? How often I think of scenarios where we are next to each other in silence, and say everything. I've always thought of you as a savior on earth, a guardian. See you aren't my lover, I've never imagined kissing you but why did you never hold me? Never say you care or love me? It's not your place I suppose. I have two parents who want to show their love in a simple hug and "goodnight".
I never wanted to be the "needy one"; Should I have to ask to wrap your arms around me and protect me? When you see drying tears and make-up running and my eyes staring up at ceilings when my fingers are still playing some unknown melody?
Minutes ago, I read an article about love and inspiration. Is that what love does? Is love an ink and pen because you've been my writing material continuously through this year. I become afraid before going to bed, I can't surrender to night that easily. And so, I write you down in all I know. But I ruined our relationship, didn't I? Why can't I act normal around you now? Is it because you heard the rumble of the train that Wednesday and I never responded so you pleaded like I was a lost child and I clung to your arms as you pressed cloth more firmly into my skin for I was
bleeding.
I've been purposefully avoiding you, quitting what I love to do so I won't have to see you out of the corner of my eye, under the massive church light, sounding symphonies. Why can't I be happy that you helped so many times before and look forward to getting better? To laughing freely without any prompting? Am I some kind of sadist? Do I equate myself with sadness intentionally? Though I have this gnawing fear that happiness won't grow on my buds, that each time, I'll decay more and more. (I shouldn't have to relive winter and dry your bones out, too).
You won't be able to love me. You will someday have your own family. You are older, wiser, more stitched together. I'm supposed to rely on myself now, relish in the notion that you made me stronger but I still need you (or maybe it's want). I have more people now who know my secret. Who can help. But none of them understand as much as you. As nonjudgmental as you.
I should have never involved you. I tell you this weekly though I'm talking to my own four walls and not your calm face. Seven months ago I learned what it meant to open, offer, my heart. Completely. On a wooden pew. On Mother Mary's side of the altar. Then fast forward into August, and you reminded me that August of the next year, we would come back, sit side by side and I would no longer wear shame. I would be clean again. But you can't help me get to that point. As much as I want to call you my home, you can't stay with me forever. I must return. I must go back into the dust storms. Become blind again instead of all-knowing that my heart searches for you in every fragile star and roaming car.
Mama whispered to me last night I should not even think of calling your number again. Now, she didn't mean to be cruel, I know it's the truth, though it still hurts. You were the first to know, the only one I feel safe with. You know by my tone how I am, what thoughts are racing in my head.
I [can't] love you this hard. This much. It's not right. We're centuries apart. We live in clashing eras. This can't
