I built a home in his lungs, and in his chest, his arteries, his feet, his skin and bones and in his eyes,
Oh the eyes!
And his eyebrows…
Left my shell to put up residence in his being,
only to know there was already somebody there.
I’m homeless for your love.
If I taught you how to love me,
you’d refuse to love me then.
So just leave me alone,
let the vines grow on my walls.
Let cobwebs hang like Christmas wreaths
on the walls of my heart.
Save your breath and your heart
for someone else.
I was not made to be wooed, dear boy;
I would only chew on your strength.
So snap out of your daydream
and run away from me,
like you would from
I have written love letters to a guy I have been trying to forget about. They have been stacked neatly on a bookshelf, unscented sheets of paper placed strategically in the midst of the whiff of old books and the gently disappearing trace of flowers guilelessly arranged on a plain old glass vase. By some quirk of fate, they are roses. Roses are not really a very rare thing inside the house. But on top of my bookshelves, I would rather have spring lilies or tulips. This time, however, I consented to the roses. I do not even know why.
One corner of the house, hence, smells a lot like love. The smell of old books and withering roses serenades a melody as the indiscernible odor of the letters dances mid-air. Nobody else’s nose can pick up the mishmash of different kinds of aroma all meshed to form a mosaic of a love message, but I can. I know it very well.
I have not bothered to place the letters inside envelopes; I will never send them anyway. They are simply folded, precariously, because I am always tangled between the conviction that they should cease to have importance and the idea that they should not. They should, because they are a testament that I have at least the capacity to love. They should not, because I am not even sure this is what the face of love is supposed to be like. I mean, when you only see one side of something, does it ever give you the real picture?
I have never reopened one of them. I just keep adding to the pile. If it remains that way, then no one else should ever know about the love story that is only half-existing.
But I often wonder, even in twinkling times when I am far away from this pile of some sort, when should the words stop pouring? I am ever waiting for that day to come. Hate will not replace the fluffy feelings, but they would cease to exist anymore.
Ah, but the letters, the books, the flowers, the smell, they remind of this feeling dwelling inside of me. And this feeling, whatever it is called, reminds me that I am living and I am hurting and so I am living all the more. If in one beguiled moment, I should learn to forget, perhaps when I open the letters, I could hope those fluffy feelings will not come rushing out again. I would take a leap forward, let go of the tiny shackles binding me to the past, and perhaps, learn to love somebody else.
But if I do not, if the feeling remains the same, I would have to keep those letters to know that I have done my part: I have loved. I have loved so very much, all on my own. At least, because of that, there is a reason why I lived. And even when this shall be the death of me, ah, I shall breathe deeply for my very last. It shall be a decent death because it has been a meaningful life.
|“Dying for someone? That’s getting old!” she said.|
|“Yeah,” I said. “Whoever it is that’s going to hear ‘I’m going to live for you, every day’ from us will be very lucky.”|
|“Very lucky indeed,” she said, “especially when we’d rather die every day.”|