When I remember you, you’re there. You can spin the wheel and guess how I might feel when you come creeping across my senses, but that’s just it. You don’t exist anymore. And you never will again. Every aspect of you now, may as well have been within a dream. I still remember the divide, but it just crossed my mind the other day. Only You would find a way to make an Art Store, specifically, a part of your monthly routine. What kind of Art Store has ever Actually done money orders, just by the by? Until then, I’d only ever seen the “western union” like apparatus in Gas Stations and Grocery Marts. Everything about the time that I knew you was surreal.
It’s hard to believe that it was real at all.
That I truly understood any of it.
Every time I go over what might have gone wrong, some new perspective rears it’s tail like a Scorpion, and Orion falls, never to return but for the stars. You are what makes my dreams seem so impossible, and yet here, I will admit, you are what hope I keep tucked away in the corners of my heart–what’s left of it anyway.
How can I be so callous as to believe in love, when my dream-deemed “true love” (laughable, considering) not only hates me, but is ever present in my mind? It’s ridiculous, but like “The Angel” before you, you seem to have found your way wedged somewhere in my cerebral, and..I find it comforting, by comparison.
What did you do?
Really?
You were Honestly Afraid of me.
As if I’d somehow tried to hurt you.
I’d only ever tried to give you the space you so desperately needed.
You said “Woah” and I turned away, and pretended you were no longer there.
But I saw the way you hid that time.
When I saw you in the street.
I’d think it was cute if I didn’t feel the full weight of every dream, and every nightmare that mirrored it in the waking world, steal my breath and knock me down about a thousand and one more notches than before..and I was already pretty low.
But, though your fear made me dumbfounded, you never once laid a hand on me.
And that was a comfort compared to the Angel.
With all of your anger wielded with those daggers you call Eyes, not once did you strike me, but for your tongue. In the least romantic, let alone sensual, of ways, you lashed out, by spreading your assumptions and not once consulting me.
Okay, maybe…Twice, I’d say, consulting me.
I’d say three, but, face it:
Screaming “I WOULD NEVER HURT YOU!” at one in the morning, in a dark kitchen, is by no means facing whatever issue made you feel that was necessary to begin with.
It’s sweet, in a way, the oath like way you seemed to be making a promise, as if the part of you lurking behind all of that unkempt rage, the subconscious you, would make sure that I would never, Ever, forget you.
You are the magic.
The suspended belief.
In the way a fledgling christian might wait for a sign that their God truly exist, I await my sign that somehow..some way.. something mattered.
Even if it didn’t to you in the end, I will always remember.
I don’t care if I come across crazy.
I don’t care who calls me insane.
That I’ve given up hope should be obvious.
It doesn’t mean I’m not plagued, every day, by the moments that passed between us.
Yeah, you were terrible. Rude. Presumptuous. Condescending. Dare I question it, but, fake? As if you were expected to be a particular you until you’d had enough smoke or alcohol to feel safe enough being the more relaxed you, and then the real you…he was somewhere, struggling under every chord you played, and every cruel act you justified. I wonder if one day you might remember too, maybe something will cross you’re mind. Maybe you’ll see some short, pale, blonde in a bright red dress, hair a mess from the wind and the leaves will fall. The seasons are changing in this theoretical moment, and a song might filter through, reminding you of a moment where no one spoke but the dead, and that peace were ever questioned were laughable.
Of course that moment passed, but maybe..though you said I shouldn’t expect someone to “See what I see” I can’t help but hope, you might see it the way that I did one day.
I still wonder, I still think of you like a fairytale, and..as of right now it’s been a while..maybe two months? Since I last dreamed of you? But that’s also that I can remember.
I know that you are not You in my dreams.
There could be no connection further than my own observation in the time that I knew you.
But I’m also acutely aware that the only “princely” things you had to do with were 1. convincing me to watch Princess Bride (people had tried to for years, you finally convinced me with one comparison that no one else said) 2. The way you set up the vanity that day? I knew then my heart was stolen, for good, and I’d suffer for the rest of my life for it.
The way you looked at me..
Like a cautious Deer.
Like you were afraid of what I might say.
Lucky you, I never could say anything.
Not to you.
That’s why this will exist.
I’m tired of trying to remember chronologically and ver batum, my memory is in able to withstand time and so I will settle for the moments that I remember you. Those will be when I find refuge here, in this digital screen. It doesn’t hurt so much anymore. I dont question much either. Either you were with those people that threatened me, taunted me, and scared me, or you weren’t.
You say you weren’t.
But in the end, you gave me no reason to trust you.
In the end, it seemed like they were right.
No matter how hard I tried to believe they were wrong.
They said you were cruel.
I said you were only Bitter.
It never mattered.
You said that I was disturbing.
You didn’t tell me how I frightened you.
You only told someone who, considering (and you know who he was closest to) how easily influenced their own “personal opinion” could become.
Why?
You should have known.
Why didn’t you just talk to me?
Why couldn’t you understand that I just couldn’t speak?
Why did you have to do every awful thing they said you would, and worse?
Without trying,
Without ever being ANYTHING aside from a part-time pissy landlord/roommate, you became one of the most vivid scars in my soul?
I can’t forget you.
I can’t answer these questions without you.
So I guess we’re stuck with this…awful construct of useless, taunting memories that insist on finding some sort of finality.
Right?
Finality is what will cure the curse of a hateful true love?
Can’t I talk to God about it?
I kinda tried.
I asked him for a new True Love.
For Metaphors sake, he sent a kind enough Fallen, but it was clear that the Fallen was not a “substitute” but a warning. “Choose another path, and risk your Self.”
What do I do then?
I can’t seriously wait for you.
THAT would be insane.
No..
I can only write about you.
Can’t I?