Hope

Facade

To the 19-year old girl whose heart got tricked by matches burning her heart into pieces. 

From the very first time my eyes fixed on you, I was mesmerized by your enchantment that gave me familiar feelings I haven't felt before. I never had the idea of what you would look like in person or how would your countenance lure me . . . . as if you have an enigmatic potion that pulls me closer and intensifies my curiosity.

I still don't have a clue about how, why, and when did I start having nostalgia the moment I took a glance at you. You did not even do anything. But maybe it's just the way our hearts function . . . in a perplexing way.

It boggles our minds first and then seconds making us long for something so impossible to have. It tells us the memories we hadn't built; the unfamiliar words that linger in our minds that we hadn't spoken; the yearning to be sheltered in the warmth of each other's embrace without having to see each other's face in the flesh.

It seemed like I was struck by lightning and I felt all the electrifying sensation awakening my desire to feel your presence beside me, to feel your arms intertwined with mine, to feel its softness as you suddenly touch my skin, and to feel the tenderness of your voice as you greet me. I wonder what it would feel like to hold you and captivate your heart as you captivated mine. Maybe you cast an inescapable spell on me . . . but I loved it anyway.

I know that we would probably never have the chance to take a closer look at each other's eyes and create lasting memories. But if I ever heard your goodbyes, I wouldn't move. I wouldn't budge for it would be as painful as a permanent farewell for me.

Funny, I know, how a glimpse of you would make me struggle this way. But no matter how many times I deny it, there's still part of me that wants to see you.

If only our world is driven by metaphors, I would engrave all blank papers with them just to write you . . . and somehow make you come to life. There is a too-good-to-be-true realm where both of us exist. It's the place where we can be who we want to be and have the freedom to choose each other- it's our only haven- away from reality. But it's all a vacuous idea; a nonsense draft that will never be written.

Do you know that every midnight I would amble on these scenes only to get smashed by whithering waves of reality? Maybe you don't . . . because all you did was strike me with all your uncertainty. You could have more than one facade, vague intentions.

I wonder if I ever crossed your mind. I wonder who's gotten the special place in your heart. But it would be too foolish of me to start having those questions because we are too far from each other. It's too impossible. Not even a single string could tie us both.

You may not be a supernatural character from a fictional novel who lives beyond a human's sight, but you're certainly a character from mere existence- from reality- who carries a bolt of lightning that strikes me with unfamiliar feelings that cripple my heart. It's confusing. You have the power to make me smile and make me sad.

It doesn't hurt at the very first strike, you know. It feels weird. It feels good. But as it goes on and on, it hurts me slowly. The pain becomes unbearable as I look into your eyes. All of my fascination with the stars and the fact that they're too far for me to reach -that you're too far for me to hold becomes so painful.

. . . You're only destined to pass me by.

We live in the same world, but we can never gaze upon each other just as how we lovingly gaze at the shooting star and wish for a certain thing to happen.

It's just mysterious how I can vividly think of your presence and feel it in my metaphors. I can smell your scent as if you're comfortably lying beside me while looking up at the sky-hoping for the same thing.

Everything seemed so fast as how the rain pouring down in torrents turned into drizzle. A glimpse. A quick turn. An ending written with a very quick plot as if the writer never cared about the possible plot holes. Like you . . . . who never cared about my metaphors.

It's all a nonsense exchange of hellos . . . of endless mirth. Your laughter and how comforting your voice I would never forget. I guess, all those agonizing strikes of desire and splash of reality equates to tragedy- it's inevitable, right? But I think I will never be prepared for this.

Our destination is beginning to tumble, reminding us of the paths that we once had walked into; like a paper suddenly coated with excess ink that once invigorated the writer for its clean page, but only meant to crumple into an empty trashbin; like a scattered beam of sunlight that once astonished people and gave them hope to fall in love, but only to be shattered in pieces till everything becomes a memory.

We never had the right beginning.