When you first said I love you, I wasn’t sure whether I want to keep it in my head or in my heart, but it predictably lodged in the latter. I wasn’t certain either, of the apparent difference it would have made, had I let it habituate in my head instead. Perhaps it would have been more transient? However, it’s been done. I welcomed your words within me and they remained.
As quaint as this may sound, I admit your strange love consumed me... For days I sheltered myself in the idea of it. I pictured the routine eagerly—you and I dine next to each other; discuss what’s essential to us or anything silly; work our own affairs; go to places we love; bask in ardent laughs; sleep under the same ceiling; and finally, wake up the next day inspiring each other’s heart.
For months, I trusted in its forthcoming. And I grew confidence all the more perceiving what you were trying to build. Was it real? Because it felt so that I had to prepare myself for the great deal of effort it may ask of me later on.
And I succeeded.
But just when I was ready, alas, you waved your retreat.
And it incredibly hurt.
Your love was your present. Truly. A post card you sent from a far distance. It was unique and lined with the most romantic words. And while the thought of it left me hopeful and happy waiting, it never arrived.
Did you even send it in the first place?
Photo by Christopher Flynn