The Brain is Never at Rest

34

If I am to write another love story, I will be writing about you. For all the circumstances that took place between you and me, each of those was euphoric. It depicted the deeper meaning of the moon rising and the butterflies, about stars that varied in size and intensity that seemed to be the only thing that would equate to your existence. Our love was boundless, making me take severe risks, some of the many things I never did. You and I are the only characters that would exist because I know you and I are enough to alter this mortal coil. A happy ending will be nonexistent because we do not plan to end it.

It would be cruel if I kept it hidden. It is a treasure meant to be seen by the naked eye. Even pieces of jewelry are flaunted at grandiose parties. And you, more precious than any jewelry could be – deserve to be placed under the dazzling spotlight, with me standing right by your side.

I was so in love with you, and the world will know how love was so addicting; it kept me wanting it for so many years. The ecstasy is incomparable; no hallucinogen could equate to how immaculate the feeling of being so into you was. It was more than enough to consider me an addict – and it is your love that I will recklessly take and induce over and over. If I were to write a poem, every stanza and line would speak of how much adoration I have stored here in my heart, and it would only be poured out to you alone. The metaphors would be a peculiarity of how bright you are as my yellow, how lovely you are as my rose, and how divine you are to be the only exception. Commas and periods cannot stop me from spitting out words of how much I love to be the home you will come back to, your favorite clothes, the apple of your eye, and the sun that makes you shine. I will put the readers on a magical journey as they traverse into the colorful world the two of us will share for the rest of our lives.

You were the wish that I would whisper to a shooting star, the person I would want to stand beside me at a concert of my favorite band; I want you to be the one who will place his hands around my shoulder, the person who would pull me even closer; someone whom I would spend the late nights driving to nowhere, someone who would want to dance with me on an empty boulevard with only the moon as the audience. I want to ride a boat with you, enjoy the lake view, and whisper words that scream a deeper meaning of 'I love you'.

But as I reread the ones that I have written about you and me, I came to a sound realization - maybe the reason I cannot pen my words anymore is that all the turns of phrase that I had, I have given them to you. And when you left, you took all of them. I lost the power to tell love stories and create masterpieces of romantic poetry at the exact moment I lost you.

It was painful, of course. But what is more painful is that whenever I try to write more, it ends up with you. In every word, in every line, I persuaded myself that I can still write the rhymes. Yet all I end up doing is telling you how much I feel sorry for feeding myself with all your lies. If this is where it ends for me, I hope it is not for you. I will keep you alive in the words I have written, and your existence will be immortal under my prowess.

You are forever alive in dead poetry.