I thought I would never write about you again.
I am lost of metaphorical titles and figurative lines. Those things I never wanted to lose had gone with the blow from my cigarette’s smoke. They afloat and mislay their core in the air. Words come flashing through my mind with indistinct gist. These fingers cannot comprehend comprehension. And I fear I am not writing a note but a poetry cocooned in a prose.
I thought I would never write about you.
I thought I am lost of words and memories and pains.
I am not.
And there you are sitting beside me. Laughing. You’re telling the stories again. And I feel your breath. There you sit right beside me. For all I know, only in my reverie.
Only in those can I hear you speaking to me again unaltered. Without awkwardness. Just like before. Only in thoughts will I see you smiling for me again, showing your imperfect teeth that I love more than the thousands’ perfect grins. Only in those figments will I be able to feel the roughness of your palm, and fingers that once had played my favorite symphony.
They are called memories because they already are done. They would not happen again. They would never happen once again.
It hurt. It hurts. It will hurt.
But it is through all these pains and heartbreaks and tears that I know that I had loved. Truly.
Even if it was not said. Even if it was kept. I had loved.
And I would write…
Perhaps not all about you. Not about us for there is no us. Not about the things I am already done writing. Not about poets with unfinished poems. Not about singers with broken tones. Not about my fingers that are finally letting go. Not about my heart. Not about you and your you. Not about unstoppable pains and heartbeats.
It will not be all about the same things again. For there is no sense of repeating, not until you would learn to write about me.
But before that happens, I know I will be writing again…
Not for you. But for someone else.