The word love is a mystery to me. I never felt it and I never recieved it and maybe if I had given it first, I would have got it back. At the wee hours is when I need it most and I imagine being loved by him. It's impossible and it's absurd because I lack everything that could make him love me. But I want it. Not all the time. But just late hours when I'm lonely and I'm staring at his photos and listening to his favourite songs.
My deep adoration for him expounds. It's growing daily and some days he's all I can think about. What we'll do if we met. I imagine listening to his raspy laughter, intertwining my fingers with his slender ones, as we lay on bed on a rainy afternoon. Looking at his eyes on the screen calm the demons in me and the possibility of some day looking at them, gazing straight at them like I gaze at the sunset, gives me a peace of mind. I have nothing to look forward to. I have no dreams and no goals but in a fraction of a second, meeting him some day is the only hope I have.
Sometimes I'm glad I am not loved, because there's nobody to dissapoint. There's nobody's expectations to live upto. Sometimes I wish I was loved, because I would have someone to hold me and pull me away from the jaws of despondency. My heart is messy. My life is messy. My thoughts are messy. But so is he. His poems paint a different picture. His perception of himself depict a different version of him. He's messy. We would be a beautiful mess together. I am no blind though. He's incapable of loving and I know he'll never love someone such as me.
But for a moment, let me dream. Let me dream of a life with him. Where we make morning coffee in our kitchen and I kiss him after the first sip so I can taste it on his tongue. A life with him where I know he's mine this morning and tomorrow night and forever, however long forever is. A life where I can finally feel happiness and excitement when he breathes near my neck and my heart palpitates when his fingers slide between my thighs. Let me dream of the way he'll whisper I love you. Let me imagine the taste of his tongue. But that's all they are, right? Hopes, dreams, imaginations fuelled by the fear of infinite loneliness. Because I don't love him. I know I don't and I don't know whether it's because of the fear of not being loved back or because I'm just incapable of ever feeling love.
Maybe this is all there is to me. Maybe all I am capable of feeling is imagined love and displeasure in everything. Maybe all I can feel is mimicked emotions. Maybe if I meet him and caress his skin, I will still feel empty. Maybe I am better off walking on the path of death and allow no dreams and hopes to sway me.
YOU ARE READING
The Path to Death
PoetryThese are free verse poems that I have written when I was at my lowest point, trying to figure out what I want more, to love or to die. I am battling depression and maybe I will get better, maybe not. But writing down what I'm feeling lessens my b...
