"Beauty means the agony of sacrifice and the end of agony..." - F. Scott Fitzgerald
A year and a half passed, and he was all she thought about. House visits unanswered and phone calls ignored. 2018 came and went, with 2019 here, and their situation still stagnant. Robyn used work as a distraction not allowing herself to get too sad about the loss of contact. If he needed her, he knew where she was and how to reach her. The ball was in his court because the last thing she was going to do was beg. She made an effort to move on––– dating one man to the point where it could've developed into a relationship, but at night all she wanted was a pair of tattooed arms holding her, hearing and feeling his soft breaths blow against her neck––— her greatest comfort, but in his absence nights weren't so comfortable, so she decided to wait. Waiting for the one you wanted to be with was easy. The one you're meant to love will be the hardest to keep and for him the hardest to accept. It wasn't meant to be easy because the right person would never come along.
"So... how is he?" She was at a sparsely, populated, outdoor local café with Big Pat enjoying her day off. The land of tranquility, with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and homemade soup. A clear view of snow falling in the wintry daylight beautifying everything it covered. Winter in New York was beautiful, but being in bed was the best, with him was better.
"The same, just a tad worse."
"Still in the Word?"
"Not as godly as David, but he tries as he says."
"Does he talk about me?"
"Sometimes, when he's drunk. He'll have those rare moments when he's vulnerable, and he'll talk about you lovingly."
"I just want to love him, Pat. Why won't he let me love him?"
"He's not used to love, Robyn. He has a diminished ability to experience positive emotions, so he pushed you away because his beliefs about himself are vastly negative."
"Do you think he's worth it, Pat? Honestly."
"You do, otherwise, we wouldn't be talking about him."
She stirred her fresh cup of Chamomile tea, the steam placing her in a calm reverie. "I just want to hear him talk about his day. Be there for him on his bad days. Be the spark that helps make his days good. Help give him confidence when he's insecure. I want to inspire him because he inspires me. He's so strong; he's wanted to end it, but he hasn't. I just want to understand when he feels misunderstood. Ensure he's smiling, genuinely. Be there as he grows, you know?"
"He's having an art gallery tonight, you can see him there."
"Would he even want me there?"
"I'll see you tonight, Bajan."
🥀
One year and a half, and she was all he thought about. He missed her, but all he wanted to do was forget her. That was impossible because she left a great impression on him––– memories of the times they spent together, traces of her scent; rum, passionfruit, and honeysuckle on his pillowcases. On his bed. On him. She was his weakness––– her touch, and her smell. Her. He didn't want anyone else, but her and for that, he didn't mess with anyone else. He wanted love but was avoiding it. Besides, he wasn't easy to love either. Here was this woman that wanted him and he pushed her away. She tried to contact him for a time, writing to him until she grew tired of his lack of communication. He kept every last one, read them every day. She wrote him her last poem a year and a half ago.
Every time I write these poems they leave remnants of you
scribing the memories of us, now they've become a taboo
Love composed a union so right but so oblique
In whom both my heart and tears now bittersweet would agree
I'm talking poetic justice, poetic justice
If I told you that love drips from the roots of forbidden fruit
would you want me? I mean, I have to say this
Love is not just a verb, it's not you stroking your ego
Love is not just a verb; it's you needing it, maybe
Why you acting scary? When we make perfect sense
We accept the love we believe we deserve
and you're tainting potentiality with past mistakes
I mean, I have to say this, love is not just a verb
and I can see the wheels turning
Defense mechanisms when our paths diverge
I want that interference, It's apparent, I can feel it
That's your heartbeat, it either caught me, or it fooled me
Read slow, and you'll find mirrored reflections in these lines
Sincerely, yours truly, and right before you go blind, P.S.
