My Hidden Lives // Prose

54. I don’t want you (for long)

 still life: a study of Love

still life: a study of Love

Unanimous decision. Nothing lost, no love torn in the aftermath. Just the sounds of two strangers – you and I, and stop. Over. System failure. Upon my cheeks, two kisses, still warm. I look at your photograph, even though: over. There is no space for me to begin anew, no morning lover, only the emptiness – subsiding now –

divide two by two,
our hate,
and you will find
only one is left,
only one is new,
I think the new
is you.

If you choose to divide
three by three,
our hate, my love,
you will find only me.

The dawn sits by your window. Deflecting. What do you yearn for? I have nothing left to desire. You have nothing (left to lose). Let’s see how similarities attract. I will be alright at night, when I don’t dream of sanctuaries. I will be fine if you say you will not stay. I am not a fragile thing – a vase, crystal – to be treated carefully.

We are never alone. There are friends to be met and movies to be seen. There are strange lips to be kissed. You are never alone, while I… My shadow follows you around. It is a thick cloud of smoke, which is the worst in me.

It is my jealousy.

Nothing stalks my footsteps. I’m starting to think you’re a ghost. Your kisses become stronger, and I think it is because you have nothing left to say. I am dancing to your tune. Tell me, a concert is formal. You are not allowed to dance. I will leave teary eyed, but I will not tell you

you were wrong.

I will curl up on my balcony and be myself, quiet and brooding, the image of another flashing in my mind. You were never my master, but I was your slave. It is the nature of my heart – it needs to be governed. If there are no takers, there is always me, my insecurity. Lay down your weapons. I am not the soldier I was when she left.

But I am the scared child you met,
I am the same adulteress she made of me.
She never loved me, but she loves me now.
I sleep with the thought of her in corners.

Born to cling to someone’s sleeve, like an infant. Born vermin. Striving, always, striving to become human. I have not managed, yet. Twenty three years. I carry them surprisingly well. A long time for a parasite. Sometimes I think we are one, but then I am forced to remember you are the one, and I am nothing.

I have never thought so low of myself,  like I do now. It is a funny thing, this love. It has no end, yet its outline is eerily familiar.

I do not presume to comprehend
the nature of our sighs
(you are you,
and I am I)

You are indefinite, alive, inhuman. You will, once, strike me down with a word. I am prepared for your weapons.

Despite my new-found courage, I plead.
Try to love me.
I do not want you for forever.

I want you, for as long
as your sighs still remain a mystery.
After that you are free.
After me.

I don’t know what happens when you’re not here. You are here now. I am not fortune teller. Not much of a scientist, either. I cannot predict, or think, when you’re here.

It is funny, this love.
You do not want me,
and I do not want you
(for long)

Why don’t you close your eyes, when we kiss? I always feel like you are watching to find fault in me. I do not like you when we kiss. I like you best when you are inside. I know I cannot go wrong then, I know I cannot go wrong, if I only love you. The problem appears when I don’t.

I don’t like you when you talk in puzzles. I don’t like you when you treat me truthfully. I do not like you when you love me, because I know you lie.

I love you. I love you.
I don’t like you, though.
Me neither.
What becomes of us, then?
When we do not like each other?

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