It is something to behold, the love one human can have for another. I wonder if you had known this, would things have been different? Time may never tell. But of course, you lived almost solely on the hope that there was such a love, one that could both create and destroy. That is the love people write about. That is the love that you believed would complete you. Did it?
Your naivety astounded me at times. You were so sharp tongued and aware of the little things that made up the bigger picture. Tell me, did you ever catch a glimpse of that bigger picture? From where I stood, I doubt you ever could have. Did you know I was sceptical at the best of times? I wondered if you were just fantasy, and the things you knew about the real world just made your imaginary world real, the evidence you gave for it sounded like a filtered version of reality, in the context of your own imagination.
My doctor quoted Henry Miller to me today, 'The surest way to get over a woman is to turn her into literature'. I wonder if he knew how much I desired you that way. To turn you into a tangible, obtainable object, on which my desire could rest and smoulder. You never allowed me to do such a thing. I could never understand your refusal of my love. Who did you think you were to govern who one should or should not love? I gave you my heart, again and again. I gave you my soul. I gave you so much of myself that I became like a shell, abandoned on the shore, its smooth curves chipped, built up with calcifications and scum. My love, I tore myself apart for you.
There is always something in the way with us. There is never clear ground. Never an even playing field. It is a perpetual struggle for supremacy. Sometimes I wondered what you were thinking, all those times when despite us being together, you never spoke. You would pretend to read, but I knew better. I would watch you. Were you aware how ardently I would stare? How hungrily I would take in your features, burning them onto my heart? Was it then that I should have noticed your lack of reciprocation? You would take too long to turn a page, or read the same sections over and over. Was it me? I knew you felt uncomfortable with the feeling that another could have such intimate knowledge of yourself. Was it because you feared that under scrutiny you would rise as inadequate? That if another got too close they could pick you to pieces, as wilder beasts do to carcasses. For an age I was desperate to know why you would shut yourself off. My insecurities told me I was overbearing, my sense of hope said you were just a pitiful soul lost in your own imagination, my imagination invented a terrible and tragic past as an excuse. None of these, however, provided your explanation. Could you have even given one?
At first your mysticism intrigued me, attracting me in a fascinating way, but as time went on, more and more of the things that drew me to you began to draw blood. Your eyes, like swinging doors, one minute so transparent you could see to the very depths of your soul, the next an impenetrable fortress. I dreamt about your eyes, the night after we met.
It was mid-February and I hadn’t seen you in an age. You had escaped to your parent’s house for the summer. You had left so suddenly that I never had time to come with you. Was that your intention? Were you sick of my presence already? I thought I’d surprise you with one of those romantic gestures that I thought so much of, and you so little. Perhaps because it was too subtle, perhaps too commonplace, too pedestrian. It was an extremely hot day, don’t you remember? You were in your parents pool, reading. You didn’t see me right away, so I stood in the shadows, watching you. Occasionally you would lick your lips and purse them together, or float your legs in a pseudo-aqua-aerobic move unsuitable for the shallows you were in.
Your nails were a bright colour, matching that strapless bikini top you were wearing. The high waisted bottoms, so childishly torn on the seams, did nothing to dispel an image so alike Humbert Humbert’s Lolita, and for a second I felt what it would have been like for poor Humbert. To see that skin, the unknown innocence. You would never be able to fathom the strong desire I had at that moment to take hold of you, explore that innocence and to claim it for my own. I came and sat beside you in the water, leaning in to kiss your cheek. You vaguely acknowledged me with a searching hand looking for mine. You did not look up as I squeezed your fingers, but from that moment as I watched you your posture was less relaxed, your concentration more forced and the page never turned. I asked you what the matter was. You brushed me off with a brief ‘Nothing’. How was I to know then what went through that mind of yours?
The next time you spoke it was to vaguely mention some new fact that your scatterbrained readings had procured. I hungrily absorbed your appearance, your dark hair glistening from the water’s light reflection, your feet prune-like and waterlogged. If I looked closely I would see that you hadn’t expected to see anyone, your eyebrows had grown out, you’re hair was scraped up in a messy elegance and you weren’t wearing make-up, and probably hadn’t for weeks. It was at this moment that I found myself loving you, but I was still so uncertain, so I kept quiet.
No comments:
Post a Comment