brave

I try to imagine a world where we are together: you with the kind eyes, the soul full of hope, and the laughter of a thousand singing angels– and I, the one who returned a hundredfold, withholding the words I had so wanted to say over and over again.  But I can never do so without merely building up on only what has been because presently, there is a gaping hole with nothing but the sole truth that I had given up on you so long ago and the fear because of your quiet rejection, I return to you constantly.

I could’ve been able to tell the world that I had once felt for you, that I had once led myself to believe that I finally made the right choice with you.  I made myself believe that someday, I would finally learn that I could find someone no better than you ever were.  You do not mess with perfection, I say.  And you’re not even perfect.  But almost is always good enough.

But when you shook your head with those sorry little eyes and you instead gave me flowers to ease the pain, I couldn’t even look at you straight in the eye without knowing that it’s out there.  I did my part and it was rejected.  The buck stopped there.  No longer did I feel the adrenaline I used to feel to tell you the words or to tell your successors after that.  I wanted to tell the world that “hey, we’ve become a cliche,” to have that boost rise in my chest as the only person I wanted to see stand on the highest mountain and shout, “We’re one of them now!” To have somebody share in that glory of spoken word and unfiltered emotion.

Never, never again will I feel that way about anyone.  I had been reduced to writing words you will never know was written for you, and you will go on living your life, not knowing that someone else wrote all these for you.  Was I stupid to even try at all? To invest all my emotions into a moment I could never get back? Spend it wisely, they say.  I never knew money could account to feelings at all but apparently, they can.  I feel so pathetic just thinking about those when I’ve felt that now unfamiliar feeling of euphoria, when I could’ve let everything go just to see you smile.

It’s not even about trying to find the One or finding your name written across the stars.  It’s just that I didn’t even need destiny to spell it out for me.  I chose you.  At this point, I try so hard not to return again, to not waste all these words thrown into empty air because you know nothing.  You know nothing about the words I write, or the pain I feel when I try to talk to you.  I try to let them out, I do, believe me.  But the voice never gets out and instead becomes a crackling sound you hear after the feed of the microphone: irritating, scratchy noise that you would rather shut out of your ears.  You have made me feel absurd to the point that I try to look for you in the crowd again, as if resurrecting those memories would bring everything back to the way the were.  But it wouldn’t, would it? I will only force myself to get used to it again, to think to myself that I had been right all along.

I know that I can never stand on a pedestal in front of seven billion people proclaiming this, and the heat of a thousand suns can never color my cheeks with the freshness of that feeling.  Not anymore, never again.  But I’m hoping.  I’m still hoping.

You walk away as the memory turns cold once again.  Stale as it is.  This isn’t real, you tell me with your effervescent smile as your color fades to black.

But this is for you.

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