You were perfection, kinda.
And layer by layer, one day at a time, you diminished your brilliance so I could look at you without hurting. Agonizing as it was, I soaked up everything that was you, immersing repeatedly in blinding white luminosity. Choking on the apotheosis of your essence, you were existence itself.
I became familiar with your guardians, desolation and torment. Pain was a friend. A familiar face.
But I never knew gone without goodbye.
I think it rained the day I died.
Surely, you must remember. You were there after all, a whisper, a shade. A shadow in the city. I miss the city, its outline entangled in an unbroken neon embrace. Mirrored shapes in puddle realities distorted by countless feet. Our reality.
We were never alive. We were always on the other side. Young, and chasing fiction with greedy tongues. Endless rainy days, just like this one. The day before.
“I love the sound of water. It can be loud, but it’s never noisy,” you whispered into my ear.
Nostalgia is a harsh mistress.
Evenings are funereal. When the sea swallows the sun and its water overflows, and shadows elongate to meet and congregate.
When strangers who wished they were lovers dance and sway, and when lovers who wished they were strangers unlock lips and peel away.
When musicians ignore agogic accents to play freely, and writers become poets; or are they one and the same? Perhaps musicians are poets too?
Such silly questions. Of course they are, but not all poets are writers.
Unless they agree to come to my funeral. Which will be held on a cold and stormy evening. Because that’s how most stories begin.
You write like a poet, but move like an earthquake.
That’s what he said on his last day.
Although I think that’s an unfair assessment of the last son of krypton.
But then again, he gave as good as he got.
"Today, everyone gets a star.
Not a plastic shimmering yellow sticker that you paste in your book.
But a collapsing cloud of material composed primarily of hydrogen, along with helium and trace amounts of heavier elements.
A massive, luminous sphere of plasma held together by gravity.
Here, go ahead, take one. You can keep it in your pocket and take it out from time to time when you think of me.
"The house has a new friend. It’s a lime green curtain.
The green that inspires singing in the shower.
The green that encourages the romantic fool.
The green that makes us all strive to do good.
The green that isn’t really green, but close enough.
"Be swift little feet, fly back to me in haste. Stay away from the troubles that weight you down, and soar.
Up
Up
Into my arms.
"Unclothed on the balcony, sipping your buqisu with intimidating grace. You detest the heat, your nakedness a mixture of blatant defiance and pure disregard. I steal a peek and allow my gaze to linger momentarily.
I turn away just as you look up.
“Ah, the first days of Spring. I’ll have to change to short-sleeved shirts soon - and for you, dear, the time of ecdysis must be approaching,” I proclaim.
“I’m afraid somebody was dreaming of me and unraveling my secrets,” you say, “I simply must be more careful when I pick up strangers in the future”.
My mind continues to devour your lithe frame long after my eyes had turned. It had already betrayed itself halfway through last night (very likely after the third bottle of rosé) when lust overcame my fascination for your intelligence.
“Hardly possible,” I reply, “considering the fact that I was going to be your last dalliance.”
“Is that so? And how did you figure that out?”
I smile because you already knew the answer.
I remember when you used to visit the corner shop, drifting from aisle to aisle, inspecting each eclectic curio with relish. Not one hand-painted porcelain piece escaped your attention, and as I watched you in your trance, I wished you paid as much attention to me as you afforded those trinkets.
I remember when you walked the entire tenjinbashi-suji and float in and out of the shops, accumulating paper bags and mystery boxes. You seem to ignore everything else around you, neglecting the past, oblivious to the future.
I remember you that warm winter morning.
Crystal.
Like the river that ran along your house.
Our house. Yours a lifetime ago. Mine now.
“I’m coming home this summer!”
“It’s about time!”
“We have to catch up. It’s been too long. I have so many things to tell you. I’m getting married in October, I bought a house in Sicily and I’ve been to eight of my top ten places I wanted to see before I die. Remember how we used to talk about that? The whole traveling and experiencing life thing while we were young?”
“Of course I do. You were always so restless. Never stopped whining about it.”
“Hahaha, I did not! Besides, you were the one who asked me to leave. Pursue my dreams and all that. I still remember that lecture, hahaha.”
“I could never stand in the way of your dreams.”
“Well, now I owe you big time! So tell me, what have you been up to these five years?”
“Waiting for you.”
Two strangers.
One cafe.
Five cups of coffees. Three for him, and one for her. One expresso shared.
Laughter, intrigue, magic.
Travel, music, food. What else is there in the world that is worth talking about anyway?
Lazy Sunday morning turns into enthralling Sunday afternoon turns into intimate Sunday evening.
A finale of smell, texture, and taste.
Two people.
One moment.
In that moment, I remember telling you the enigmas of my heart. The memories rushed in and everything I had wanted to say to you, I did. In that moment.
In the other lifetime.
In another reality, I remember your porcelain bones and pale speckled skin. Your eternal dry lips, constantly hidden behind a veil of apricot balm. The way you purse them when you get skeptical, and the shape they take when you laugh.
I can hear your laughter resonate in different rooms. Like velvet in the bedroom, uninhibited in the kitchen, careless in the hall. Your voice dances across the empty spaces like falling snowflakes and settle on the lapels of my jacket.
I told you everything I remembered about you.
And in that moment, you remembered me too.
I feel your voice before I hear it.
You rustle about to find comfort between my sheets. The nook of your arm digs into my ribs. I wince, but say nothing. I suffer your trespass in silence.
Wide awake, listening to you mumble melodies. You deny it, but your tear stained eyes give you away.
What’s wrong, I ask.
Nothing, you sigh.
What’s bothering you, I whisper.
Can I sleep here tonight, you motion gently.
Only if I can have your pillow, I tease.
Why, you ask.
Your pillow smells like you, I lie.
But I’m here tonight, you say.
I trace words on your arm as you drift away. My finger spells an invisible ‘howcanItellyouthatIneedyouwhenIcanneverhaveyou’ on your skin.
As you sleep, I tell you things I could never say out loud. So when morning comes, perhaps you’ll somehow understand, that embracing your pillow instead of you, makes the pain bearable. Perhaps you’ll understand that not having you hurts, but having you hurts even more.
Here, but not here.
