letters to self

love no. 1

Dear Self,

This is not how love goes, but as such clear memories replay in your mind, you are convinced that this is how love goes:

It isn't clear where or how or why you've encountered her for the first time, or what you felt the first time she was insight. It doesn't matter. Love doesn't occur at such a tick of the moment, realistically, because you wouldn't have realized it when you first felt it. The feeling of it meanders, from your eyes to your body to your brain to your soul, until finally you would realize it being there, unknowingly for how long. This process usually takes place overtime. Rarely does it occur overnight, or at first sight. Though some romantic enthusiasts would argue otherwise, but that is only because they are too enthusiastic.

You, on the other hand, believe in no such thing as romance nor enthusiasm. The occurrence of such is merely that of a chemical reaction which you thought not to endeavor. You have pieced one thing with another, "chemical" with "medicine" with "bitterness" with "pain", with the whole process of being in love as bitter as swallowing down antidepressant pills to reactive the color yellow in your eyes.

But, as the line usually goes, that is only until you've met her.

But, as the line doesn't apply in this situation, it is only until you've seen the vanilla skies through her eyes and memorized the sweat mixed deodorant fragrant which captures her presence and felt the wetness of her skin at different parts of her body, that you erase all your presumptions about love.

It started with the light grazes of her hair on your cheeks as she leaned her forehead against yours and her tears had begun to humidify your skin at such close proximity. Her speech was exotic and barely understandable as she told you how they broke her heart. As a friend, the only thing you could do was hold her close to your heart and hush her like a child, until she fell beautifully asleep.

Then began the long hectic nights of parties and clubs and reasons you keep telling her that they were not worth her beauty. The nights would start with you being with her, music playing in the background as your focus intensifies with drawing the perfect set of winged-eyeliner for her. Her eyelashes were thick and yet so delicate between the liner. You have never seen such pretty lashes, you told her, as you tried as hard as possible to steady her face without ruining its features. She smiled with such innocence that made you hurt to think nobody has ever told her that before.

The nights would end with you stealthily walking up the staircase of your parents' home, her cold fingers sealed in your palm and her eyes gleamed in the dark like shooting stars. Your legs tried to coordinate as the sprites in your mind began to shoot outwards and the lust for her skin began to grow stronger. Finally, reached the destination of giggles and tears and sometimes warmth as she ask you to hold her.

You would always wake up to the anthem of sobriety, Sunday Morning, playing in the bathroom. Melodies laced between the dance of water from the showers. You would knock on the door to let her know before coming in to brush your teeth. Reaching out from the shower curtains that drew blurry curves of her silhouette, she gently turned the shower knob as if she was opening a safe to an unknown void deep in your chest that had been keeping your electric feelings about her all bundled up and hidden.

***