Wednesday, February 25, 2015


Breath held, I tiptoe, figuratively. My fluid psyche movements swimming over the sharp edges of something that is digging in bone-deep and bleeding me dry from the inside. Breath held, my swimming in tears eyes burningly drink in your sleeping silhouette; I am at turns glad and mad about the fact that you’re facing me, just this once, in your sleep. You must almost feel the heat of my eyes roving over your face taking a million of snapshots that will sustain me when you do what you said you would. My eyes must feel hot. I feel hot and stifled although our bedroom temperature is about 10 degrees Celsius, nowhere near sufficiently hot. Breath held I gaze at you till I start seeing brilliantly lit up, morphing patterns out of dark shadows in the ravines and plateaus of your facial structure: the sudden bursts of optical illusions and brilliant colours at either your right eye, or the middle of your forehead, or the endlessly black hole where your mouth should be, I am jolted to shift my eyes to readjust them, check that it is you, still, lying next to me, not some monster visiting me every so often in my dreams from one of the infinite parallel universes. I shift my focus away from your face and now suddenly beginning to labour breathing and even a tiny whimper – are you pretending to be asleep?... How can you even sleep?! I turn away my head and watch the pattern of pale pink roses and broken waves of minuscule golden squares from the floor to the ceiling, the wallpaper of the bedroom that has been examined all too many times while I lay awake all too many consecutive times last summer when I moved here. The insomnia of those days corresponds to the insomnia of these days. Breath held I return my gaze to you to only see that you’d opened your eyes and are watching me watch you and then the wallpaper. You close your eyes, sigh and turn away, and I feel like you had just slammed some door in my face. I feel like screaming and smashing everything around, everything except your make-belief sleep and your precious, precious body. Instead of a deliberate, methodical destruction of the surroundings that was the normal response five years ago, I choose to gut myself: I tell myself that this was coming, that this was the only resolution to the situation. I tell myself that I deserve this. All of this. Perhaps not. Not all of this. I deserve love, right?...

A few hours ago you made a decision that is now keeping me awake, all gutted out and screaming silently – I wish I was in the middle of a desert where no one will witness the hoarse, low, drawn screams till this agonising sensation that makes me want to thump my chest till it cracks open and lets out all the frothy blood and air in it, dissipates. But I must not disturb you: we’d been at it for hours, you’re finally asleep. You said you made a decision because I answered honestly to your question that yes, I was missing those peculiarly lit-up eyes, faces and, and the feelings behind them called being-in-love. If I didn’t feel loved – and that’s very new for me to be with someone where I feel I am not completely loved – if I didn’t feel that you were in love with me, how could I trust you to not take away what little you give me? All the displays of affection with friends always so ready, never with me, or never enough, not even in the most private of spaces. Even in the single public space where we should and can be free to be ourselves, you still choose to do things with others that we should but never do. You made a decision. For hours all I am is tears, silent sobs replaced by violent sobs, followed by a staring-at-the-wallpaper catatonia, followed by a silent flow again. All I do is curse myself for being madly in love with you, for being so in love that I had begun to want that feeling of obsessive love returned, reciprocated even when I knew you didn’t exactly feel that way about me: I always knew I simply grew on you. Before I knew, I began taking all your secretiveness, irritation and/or tiredness as a simply another negative proof of your feelings, or their lack thereof. I became so unsure and thus scared of losing what I had with you that I began to think of all the reasons I should break up with you so that at least I was in control of that loss. Had I been sure of your feelings, had I been sure of your affection, had I been sure that you were with me because you chose me without reservations, we may not have ever gotten here. But here we are. Can love overcome everything?

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