Drifting
Contradictory to even my most conscious denials I am, possibly, already becoming fond of you. Self-respect will always dismiss the ridiculousness of this silly thought. But how else can I explain sliding into sleep at night and the last thing I could muster is a coy half-whisper circling every syllable of your name?
How can I ever justify the jealousy nibbling on my earlobes at the thought of someone else tousling your hair?
How can I commit into words the mad, territorial greed that clouds my mind every time I start imagining fingertips other than mine that glide across the length of your spine?
How can I ever dismiss the warmth rushing in when I hear Elton John’s Your Song and everything liquefy and my thoughts drift towards you?
Apothecaries have no antidote for this mortal affliction. The best I can hope for is to long for a day when this brewing madness dissipates into mere schoolboy crushes, and all will be well in the world again. For me, at least.
For the time being your lopsided smile continue to unrest me.
It’s piercing, this troublesome feeling. Its a form of cruelty: much like catching a glimpse of a lovely face in crowded trains, and, after the overwhelming exhilaration of sudden attraction subsides your heart sinks into despair knowing it will be the last time you’ll ever gaze at such loveliness. This is where my thoughts pitch their tents: the joy and ache of meeting you, of not knowing you profoundly enough before we both retrace our steps back into the neat compartments of our respective lives, struggles and dreams.
In parallel universes there will be a little footnote in the great volumes of What-Could-Have-Beens. It will be about me having the courage to deal with your sly, deep, piercing gazes. Gazes that make me lose grip of my arrogance, gazes that come arrowed with smiles.
It is a difficulty I am too proud to own up to. It is a difficulty I struggle to forego.
Or, maybe, it’s just how it is.
We are all captives in the constancy of wanting. Whether it concludes on tragic or happy endings such hunger will always administer to wound you.
If it doesn’t, then it’s not true.
5 comments:
*sigh*
Lucky is the person to whom this piece was intended.
This is dreadful, indeedy. My friend, are you are you are you? Goodluck. Love is such a word that it folds dyna within and without.
I missed reading. hahaha... Well, back to the hell hole that I came from.
princhecha - you summed up my entire entry with one gesture. i could have written just that: *sigh*
misterhubs - or unlucky, depending on whether you look at the glass as half-fucked for half-insane.
igno! what the ef you see key happened to your blog?! and what's with the hiatus crap? come back here, warpo!
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