My Love Proses

Prose 40: Little Less Than Soulmates

i think it was probably around july when this apprehensive epiphany reaped all evocative sparrows to the fences i built as an offkey literary lad.

i cannot leverage the input of viable connection because never we once had any start-up discourse thru different settings, both online and personal, not until our online platforms got linked. i don't have adequate recollection of memories aside from the same shelter we cherished the most.

i felt despondent, plunged to the core of my hopelessness in flipping the switch up and catch up all the moments we could have conflated during those times we lost.

two years, approximately two years, may all that it takes to let hiraeth jump off the clip. greetings, introductions, conversations, laughters, insights, life ventures, leisures, endeavors could have been imbued on the sanctuary of home where strangers find common subjects and paired it with predicates that can lift them from counterintuitive solitude.

but no one dived on the sea of strangers for i have known our vibrational alignment since i first heard the name. holding such quintessential standards, the familiarity was there yet no one has redolently come to act upon it.

and so, for so many months passed, the feeling still remained with a glimpse of little gloom and melancholia. from there, i realized how i badly yearned to acquiant when the world rolled the chance beneath my sandpaper and all that was left for me can either be the reconciliation stage and thanksgiving.

the thing i would trade with anything, everything that i can afford to lose and track again if the world will only nod by certainty.

i need to overlap and i did not pick alternatives other than to wish that i could flick the time upside down. ineffably unbecoming, i can barely recognize sluggish dominion that i absorbed right after another truce has been emitted.

although we have so much intersecting truths, for a short span of time, i am completely fazed by how this person gave so much lessons more than anyone else could ever do without sealed deception.

that our voices are crystal echoes to be heard, that it is totally fine to go against the norms, that it is still an amazing cynosure to laugh, cry and bubble nonstop, that it is not paranormal to pause behind, that it is radically diplomatic to ignore fallacies and spread class, that it is okay to be imperfect as long as we are empathetic in serving our purpose. and that to live is to live alive.

— "read between the lines" if there is one thing i could say, i am grateful that this person safely landed to me. with all the essays, stories and books inkling down the spines, i am glad i was able to finally read all the words that i couldn't say out loud.

you were the best of both worlds that i never got but still managed to orchestrate such tune of symphony marked by permanent resurrections.

a rebirth of chantpleure and paradise shone with "yes, i will forever read you."

one of a litle less than soulmates. love is yours because this life can thank you for everything. to the most hopeful, loving, compassionate mbti fellow, how else can be this any better other than wishing you the vast universe?

a glamour sheathed by gossamer, the incipient of our rendezvous, how on earth did we never end just as I thought that no start has ever begun? in the finest scintilla of time, where have you been all this moment that I am about to lose?

is this the reality of true halcyon under our moonlight conflated by "profession of knowing you better from afar but let this distance be closer to your heart" out of words for the realest that i got, how can you be so endearingly nowhere near evanescence?

yours is unprecedented, real, and minty neon green — special union of how midways should look like at the center. yet with all the bruises, punctures and scars i concealed, tell me how could I meet you when the name of our timing is all too late to write? will you still ever sign it?

all the love

there are those enigma of timelapses marked by eclipses beneath lunar memories where i feel like you were the language that i am no longer fluent yet still be able to read through whispers and candescent laughters, a resonating tonic of copernicus, columbus of vocabularies and all the meanings that i imprinted on sweeter brochures by keeping them safe and sound.

it is as if though i've memorized you for a couple of times, envisage terms that are much brighter than the sharp highlights of our dictionaries, repeated by the vehement collateral of repetition, my eyes still would love to land on you, "and yes, just as i do, may i forever read you, if you let me" and the little book you own has now become the baby of my library, funny but endlessly truer than irony.

as the sun sets and either polaris or andromeda peeks to the orbit of our so-called solar cave and create astronomical patterns out of the cosmic constellation we once made, there are times when i am wondering if are we still on the same page? if this book is still written with the penmanship we oath to never change? or if our hands are still intertwined as you write and smile over my name? "tell me if we are not on the same book anymore" i profess, no deep inside, i can read anyone no more. they say another book to come? no, i found its title the moment we lost ours.

my diplomat, if i hold your words so dear and tight, may you remember that the language you write is still my only favorite, and if we get lost in translation sometimes, all i ever ask is no more than sweet nothing but to let me read you softly from the voice of your heart, your calm, chaotic and charming universe that exceeds beyond infinite.

sincerely,
your fellow diplomat, one and only i guess i hope
breathejulie