I could write a song for you; a sonnet or a poem, a symphony or a film. I could write so many words on paper, in notebooks; I could scribble on bathroom cubicles, subway walls. I could recite the dictionary in any order I wanted to, I could create a new language only native in my tongue, and still, you’d never understand what you mean to me.
I watch you speak, so fluidly and so elegantly. I watch your lips tremble with every syllable as you let them fall so effortlessly from your tongue; even when you stutter with anxiety, the sound of your voice masks the flaws. So comforting and so calming, I can’t go a night without hearing you speak. Whether in song or simple speech, you transfix me with the way you talk. I can close my eyes and still hear it long after you’ve gone silent. Even when we’re apart, even when I have nothing but the telephone receiver to give me the sound, that sweet angelic sound of your voice, I can still hear you so very clearly and still, you’ll never comprehend what this does to me.
I make you smile, the motion so rare and so hard to come by. Your lips curve slowly, softly into what you feel is sly and only noticed by me; you don’t know just how bright the bloody thing really is and how I’m not the only one who sees. On a good day, when I can make you laugh, your lips curve even more, accentuating the features that hide behind a mask of self-doubt and fear, of paranoia and anxiety. Your lips reach your ears then and you illuminate every face that comes across your beautiful grin; it’s a contagious feeling, one that I take pride in knowing I’ve caused, and still, you’ll never know the joy it brings me.
But not everything about this, about us is a good thing.
I could give you the world, but you don’t want it. Imperfection is a gift, you say; one that you’re reluctant to let go. If perfection exists, it isn’t something you wish to obtain. You find beauty in flaws; in things I can’t see with my own two eyes and a hand to guide me. In deformity, you find splendor. In ugly, you find the attractive. You see through so many things and sometimes, it haunts you; it brings out the worst in you because you subconsciously take it all in, you take it out of those you come across. Like a succubus, you inhale the bad with every breath, and you exhale what you can filter out for others to take. You never keep any for yourself, but you should; when I tell you this, you grow annoyed and I can see it in your eyes that you think I don’t understand, but I do. I just think you’re doing things wrong.
I watch you fidget, the unease clear in the way your eyes flicker back and forth, your concentration waning. I watch as you tear at your hair, pick at your skin, and rub your face so hard that you bruise. You harm yourself because you feel to blame for things that aren’t your fault; you can’t help the way you are, you can’t help your own imperfections. You take so much pride in the way you adore those blemishes, those stains on the face of society, but you can’t handle your own. Don’t you understand how beautiful that makes you? How every quirk and every mark you create, every scar and every blot on your body, your mind, your heart, and your soul is more gorgeous than the flawless and perfect look celebrities and role models wear? Inside, they hold no flame to your candle. You think I’m making this up, that I don’t understand your reasoning, but I do. I just think it’s wrong.
I make you upset with the way I play martyr and sacrifice myself for reasons unknown. I hurt you with my paranoia, the way I push you away when you only want to get closer to me. I test your patience with the way I say I want nothing from you, with the fact that I can’t handle trusting someone because I’m so afraid to get hurt. I could very well lose you because of all these things and yet, I continue to do them; you try to stop me, you try to hinder my efforts, but we both know I’m too stubborn to let that happen. I give up what I want and how I feel to make you happy; I do things for you I would never do for another and expect nothing in return but your loyalty, your love, your companionship. You don’t understand that I do this because I’m afraid, because I’m so scared of losing you without being in control of the loss, so I try to take things by the reins and do so on my own terms. Whether you see it or not, I do. You just think I’m playing a game.
But not everything with you, with us is ever so clear.
And I like that. I like the mystery, the guessing game – I love that not a single moment spent together is the same and that we always find something new to come together on.
I just hope that one day, this will be one of them.
