Something I put on facebook a bit back.
Let me just preface this by saying, I had a really good day today.
This just came out while I was sitting waiting for it to be 2 p.m. so I could go to psychology.
So yeah, I had a good day.
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"legs entangled bring my nightmares back"
"I'm writing again."
I look at the words I have typed into my keyboard and hit
ENTER.
I watch as the words appear higher on the screen before me.
I imagine her face as her eyes scan the words that have now appeared on her screen.
"What about?" No big deal. Nonchalant. Idle curiosity.
That's the polite thing to do if someone tells you something like that; you ask.
Funny how even in close friendships some people are still polite and ask the right questions.
Maybe it isn't just out of politeness.
Maybe she wants to know because she cares about what's going on in my life.
I don't tell her the reason I am writing again.
I don't tell her it's a blessing and a curse.
I've needed the words building up inside to pour out.
The fact that they are there however, is a curse.
It means something else is inside me so deep that I need to get it out.
Is this a good thing?
I don't know.
But what I write, is because of her.
"Blades of loneliness pierce my soul."
My fingers move of their own accord giving the standard polite reply that one would give if someone said; "What's up?"
"Nothing much."
There is a pause and my fingers move again "A story, a poem, actually."
ENTER
"About what?"
Her light colored font is delivered in italics.
Not many people use italics.
Italic words that if spoken would fade away quickly if I did not grab on to them.
Just like she would have.
"I don't know."
ENTER
I cannot know if my answer is honest. I think that perhaps, in part, they are far from it.
And yet, not so far.
Some moments, I truly do believe that I do not know.
In others, I think the poem is about the jealous longing caused by love.
But I don't know. I am sure that I do not know what love really is.
Oh there are lists giving characteristics, developed by those studying the human race.
They never really know. . . do they?
"In this moment, in my heart, a crack."
"Oh."
Her reply is short.
I am sure she knows I am not telling her the whole truth.
How can I?
Distance is not kind to lovers and I wonder; is it selfish that I wish her to be only happy with me?
They say that love does not envy.
They say that is is not self-seeking.
I envy those in her life.
I envy them.
I am jealous that they get to share in her life, in the moments that I cannot.
It must not be love then.
Is it obsession?
An ugly word, obsession.
"I stand still in this pain. The memory ever with me."
In pictures I have seen the smile on her face.
The lines the smile causes near her eyes.
I know that in that moment, she was truly happy.
But not with me.
"Longing for you is turning my soul to black."
I want to care for her.
To hold her close when she is not strong.
But I must not truly love her.
Right?
If I did, would I not wish her to find happiness even if it was not with me?
If she did find it, would I not impart a quiet unspoken blessing and let her go?
So what is it then?
I suppose that in this moment, I have answered her question honestly.
I don't know.
"I close my eyes and try to move on.
but my feelings for you continue their stealth attack."
