And some time in Fall 2015, my soul’s flow of poetry has been threatened,
And since then, words, scenes, and meanings have never been the same as before.
Presently, he’s taking care of my heart, after it rusted for a while in the corner of a dark room.
He’s wrapping my soul with a thick warming love that I’ve never thought I’d feel from him.
The unknown, the uncertain, they’re becoming more clear, less blurry, less scary, like an old man or woman after a cateract’s surgery; being able to walk with better vision and more confidence.
What more do I need to do or have to go back to my old self who was fluent in poetry and who managed to reach a certain threshold of satisfaction after every piece?
Why do I feel like someone in me is still scared of something?
Why is there sadness creeping in the cracks of my subconscious?
Why can’t I rely on myself for reassurance and stupid happiness?
Why can’t I just release this fucking stress and tell him how sad and worried I really am instead of overthinking about being a burden?
Why am I relieved a bit for at least writing this down, even though it doesn’t solve any fucking thing?
He doesn’t know that I call him an hour early before I actually want to dose off. An hour gives me time to be accompanied by his deep even exhales as he continues his sleep that I have interrupted again.
I would usually ask myself why he even puts up with my selfish requests; calling every night just because I can’t act like an independent adult anymore after realising that his presence, even when I’m asleep, makes a goddamn difference. But then I remember the answer, which lies within his love that he has constantly showed me and proved to me in the past months.
And now I listen to his grumbly sudden snores, and all I can think of is why am I not in his living room right now so I can jump on him and colonise his handsome face with mini kisses until he wakes up and pulls me to him to give me a tight hug because he wants me to stop bugging his face and also to give him some time to wake up mentally so he can roll me over to the bottom as he situates himself on top of me… and why the hell did this piece go off to a different tangent?
In all seriousness
I told him,
I would die for you if I have to,
I would sacrifice my life for you.
And his response,
With absolutely no hesitation was,
you Live for me?
And Goddamn he won the conversation, again.
And the pressure of his exhales,
hitting the nerve ends of his phone,
transmitting the sound of his sleep
to the earphones plugged in my ear,
sedates all the stress, worries, and doubts
that have piled up within his absence…
To the only person who found meaning behind my words. To the one person who redefined reality, time, second chances, true love… and finally To my Last First Kiss.
I was going to get one simple tattoo that represented our continuous affection that held an uncertain but a hopefully promising future.
What if you don’t end up together, eh? – one of the voices protested.
Tattoos are permanent, y’know! – that annoying-stating-the-obvious voice exclaimed.
Do they not understand that even if the relationship status changes to the worst or we don’t meet our forever, that tattoo is a reminder of the only love I’ve had that felt beautiful.
It’s a permanent memory of the only Man who managed to mark his territory.
That even if my fate isn’t tied up with yours, know that I may have not been able to tame your heart, but your name will follow me when I’m buried underground, and God forgive me as I try and fail to withstand the consequences.
Awareness follows understanding.
And acceptance leaves room for change.