a fictionous story - for the One that i love

We don't have seasons around here.

I wish I could say I met you at the beginning of autumn and we watched the leaves turn red and orange like fiery moments of passion and certainty.

Maybe I'll ask for a fallen leaf and as you bend to pick it up, 
I'll slip the scarf off your neck and bring it with me into the later months of winter.

We would scream at each other, one cold January day, in the middle of a snow-paved street. Cry and yell and try so hard to remember what we were fighting for.

You will take my hands and ask me where my gloves are but before I can answer, you'll plant a kiss that tastes like a million sorries at the edge of my lips.

I'll wrap the scarf around my hand in yours and vow to never forget this warmth in its deepest burgundy.

By the time spring arrives, the daisies would have already bloomed in my garden. You will pick a single flower when I'm not looking and place in my hands and leave, where I'll watch you walk away.

You'll say it won't be long before we meet again and let's not waste the beautiful days on loneliness and grief.

I might cry, but not until I see you make that final turn out of this neighbourhood and into another one's arm.

When all I've left of you is your lingering touch on the red rose, 
I'll hide my face in the scarf that has long become mine and let the tears fall against the beauty of spring.

There will come a time when I'll be okay, maybe better, days and months after. The burgundy scarf would have been kept away at the back of my drawer in this summer that has come too soon.

I will take long walks at the beach, 
for the company of hundreds of people who take joy in this heat, and I'll think to myself that there must be some way I won't feel so alone.

I might sit on the sand and breathe in the summer breeze, write about love from your perspective.

But we don't have seasons around here, the One that i love. All this time we've laughed and cried and came and left, we always end up in the same place, same weather, same distance, same fear.

I can't turn our days into poetry because poetry is too tolerable and unreal. When two people like ourselves fall in love, we do it for tremendous happiness and immeasurable pain, not just pretty words to put down on paper.

So one day you notice that it was actually easier back then: the distance, the optional concern, the unrequitedness of it all.

Every accidental smile and careless word turns your heart over and over. That boy is perfect, but he only exists on the other side of the computer, the other end of your cellphone.

Occasionally tangible, like your hand on his arm or the bashfulness in his smile, but mostly he's there in moments and memories you never really learned how to forget.

Melancholy was by default, you don't worry about being disappointed. It was easier back then.

This is now and this is real. You feel this boy's skin and it makes you want to get closer.

 
You think about how tired you are of uncertainty and tacit desire but in all its genuinity this is much harder than you expect.

It doesn't always make sense, being happy. Let go, you tell yourself, but u can't. You want to look into this boy's eyes and let him know this is definite but you don't do it well enough. You lack the guts and will and strength inwardly.

More than you used to ache for what you were never going to get, you now apprehend over all that you're getting.

Because you know once you get used to loving so much so hard so dearly, you'll never breathe above the surface nor smile like u used to walking hand-in-hand with him, because since dark spring's arrival, there had been no true happy moment.

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Enya - only time
the One that i love... he will lie on his bed in the evenings and sometimes noon, letting his recorder play the CD of this tune...

to relax, to dream, to diverge from his intensely mind-bloggling life...

his favourite song - the tranquility and the simplicity of it... this is for him.