Dearest Boyish Heart,
Years upon years I spent in an empty room waiting for someone to come and walk me through the open door. It took far too long to realize it was my responsibility to turn around on my own and take my exit, alone.
Alone.
Alone as it's always been.
I'll never forget the successive weeks of seeing you and thinking that our friendship was starting to bloom towards affection, but it became to me like Tantalus who could never quite reach the fruit. No matter how I contorted my body, the water always receded away from my legs even when it of its own would come to me until finally my attention was enough to repulse it.
You put your drunk hand on my heart one night, I recall it strongly every day since the last time I've seen you, just like every day before. It was broken before and it felt alive in an instant, like something could happen. Anything. A word, a thought, a spark. Nothing seemed impossible anymore. I looked into your eyes and you looked like you wanted me to draw closer as you asked if I wanted to go up. But I couldn't. Because you were intoxicated, and it felt wrong to do so. Even though your judgment seemed far from completely impaired, paradoxical in term, but I could see you and you weren't without senses.
So, we talked. Days later and the routine had finally come full circle. It's always a cycle, but I've learned not to want more than that any longer. I should've known it was too good to be true, why would anyone want me, especially you. The song birds of my soul had been singing for days, the lilies were awoken by a kind spring sun. But a blight. Oh, winter had come too soon.
You'll never known how much that all meant, even though I had told you. You were cold to yourself, and you said you didn't want to go that route. Then you went to a distant world and gave yourself to unfamiliar soil. You said sorry, with very little feeling. I think I've come to accept that my own soil has now been salted, nothing grows here anymore. Carthago delenda erat.
I want to say that I hate you, but I really can't. And I think I've grown to love you more but knowing it will never be reciprocated, in this domain of great similarity, only makes it all the worse.
Why are you so good to me?
No, I love you.
The same heart once heated by a sun in your hand somehow like a cold stone still feels brittle.
But I love you.
I shouldn't.
Hey, there's a storm, are you okay?
Thank you for letting me know.
But I asked if you are okay?
I love you
I'm sorry for loving you.
Why not go and see a movie, maybe eat some popcorn and sit next to me like we did those weeks ago? What if this was as good as it would ever get? What if I didn't cherish them as much as I should have instead of asking for more and begging you to see me the way you did that night when I picked you up? Why does it take a few drinks for people to want me, I've fallen in love with the impaired drunkard.
I love your eyes, the way they look into mine I just want to fall into them and drown, and despite your reticence I've still managed to find a pool to fall into of my own. Barely deeper than a puddle I'm still drowning.
I wish I could love you less, or even not at all.
Oh I hate you.
But I can't, because I just want you to know I love you, not for my sake but for yours. I've seen your eyes well up under the stress of life and I wanted to go about it all with you, accompany you to warmer days.
Now, it feels like it's always been about me to me and I'm tired of this every day solipsism, of wanting love and never coming to love myself. It always seemed like in the midst of my many summers I always find within me an invincible winter. Now as the icy fingers pierce my heart and dig deeper, they remind me of their familiarity and I embrace them. Love them. At least they've always been there, like I have been for myself.
But I am winter. And I write to myself daily the letter that I'll never receive. It's difficult to accept the worst parts of ourselves, why should I open the envelope of an inevitable rejection letter.
Yet I wrote it. And I'll never accept it. Because I don't know how. So I'll continue to let the frozen lance bury deeper.
And deeper.
Lost to time, a tundra.
Sincerely,
Id
