enquiry of us

do you

it all started with a question: do you love him?

you wonder, every second, every minute, always. you had fallen for him easily, a moth to flames, since you were young and you knew nothing of the life he led, the life he had before you. you saw glamour and spotlights, a world beyond your reach; you rushed in, you dove headfirst.

you burnt.

you burn, now, bright and brittle, your tendons wrecked and eyes aghast; you scare yourself. you spend your finite eternality searching for answers you won't ever get, ruminating over the smallest of disaccords, but per usual you find nothing but him:

he holds you, here, fingers on your pulse and hair on your cold shoulder, a litany of scorching breaths: you shiver. he kisses you, ever-gentle lips sliding home, home, feathery touches, sweet wetness peppering down the column of your swan neck, proud; you want to soar into skies and seas and oven-baked clouds but you fold instead, tiny; you fear. because at the end of the day, at the exit of the tunnel: you don't know yet. you don't know if he loves you for all you are or just the smooth, youthful flesh beneath his calloused hands. you don't know if the face he shows you every morning is his true, bare face or simply another persona, another look he's tailored specifically for you, like the good actor he is. you don't know if you are wrong or if you are right, for loving the man encasing you in his arms, for giving, talking, pushing; you are afraid. to you, he is a freight train running twenty-seven kilometres overspeed, and you are willingly tied to the tracks; you may escape, but at what cost; you may die, but what significance will it make; you lose after all.

you will perish and you will live, you will cry in anguish and scream for joy, you will yearn and you will settle, no explanation offerable, just that your clumsy little ticker belongs to you no more: you had fallen, for him. you like him more than yourself, love him more than life—

you can only hope that that is enough.

***

it all started with a question: do you love her?

you never think that, quiet or out loud, the way you never think the impossibles: if you don't love her, then it cannot feel this good to be with her, then this is torment, agony, a blatant displacement of souls. you had seen her, once, and you had been fascinated, enamoured, crazy. it was your crowd, and she stuck out not unlike a sore thumb, but her beauty was painfully unmatched.

and you: you think not of whether you love her, whether you need her, because you know your damned heart and it's absolute when it devotes itself. you think, you ponder, you doubt time and again, not her but yourself; because she is a gem and maybe you don't deserve her; you love her forevermore except it can't be enough, won't be enough, for the shine in her—

it's dwindling, trickling out, red hot blood on sterile floor, crimson painting your hazy vision; her brilliance. she is lying, lying, the way she always does when something turns foul like forgotten rice in her miniature electric cooker, the way her mouth wobbles downward when she grits her teeth through period cramps—i am alright the shibboleth, misused and fake. she is in your bed, your bed, but her skin raises its natural defence of minuscule goosebumps and her toes curl, protectively, infinitely, towards her silky plantar, even when you bound yourself around her curves and bones, even when you snuggle close, even when you bleed your warmth into her; you are snuffing her light out, ruthless as a meerkat. you are worthless and she the most precious being ever born to this dying world, and maybe you are taking it all for granted because she is so voluntary, she is so entirely willing to sacrifice her essence for your wellbeing and you ain't so meritorious, ain't ever worthy. she is in your arms and you can't help yourself when you think of all the better, younger people she could have settled down with, people who are not you and will never be you, people who can give her the sense of normalcy she so desires.