The bittersweet truth of late night conversations are the words that make love under the sheets of thunderous reality and the solace that comes with 3 am wishful thinking. Of all the modal auxiliaries, can is the most disappointing. Your self deception wants you to keep living the present, stretching it slowly to make the moment last as long as possible, whereas the excruciating pain of reality keeps coming back in form of WH questions. Reactions and responses carry a certain amount of weight; I don't wish to carry some along. The idea was never to relinquish what we have, but the weight of the aspect that we can't. Once you've tasted authenticity, there's no fear, there's no doubt. Certain people become a part of your story and your life is never the same. You are allowed to miss the person you once were without wanting to be them again. No feeling is final, so let us flow with the tide, whether into or away from each other, until we find a box and name it 'safe place' so that we can throw our worries in there, instead of everywhere else. No matter when we let go, it will hurt, so shouldn't we float in this moment longer and make it worth the pain?
Thursday, March 9
I was reminiscing all those nights when your vulnerability touched me more than the warmth of your skin. You know the feeling when you know all you could possibly do to someone is damage them in the end, yet all they want to do, is to cling on to you with all their love and you can't let go, because you love them too? Flesh is the tool of the weak, so you can't see us bind this love of ours by holding hands in public places. It's 11:11 and I'm in his bed torn between holding on or letting go. He has a peaceful place in his soul and a restless home in his heart and I find myself lost in his array of words that just keep calling me home. He hates the sunsets, but I tell them that the trees never miss it, so shouldn't we. He has a name for this chaos of desire and wishful thinking, but I have somewhere else to be and we'll probably make a mess of everything in the process, but we aren't remorseful cause we are only growing. In the end, we all become stories. Here we are, going nowhere with all this love, so writing about it.