I miss the sweetness I assigned to you.
I miss the laughter I put into your mouth, the twinkle I applied to your eyes, the desire I affixed to your grin.
I miss picturing the heart of you, a creature solely of imagination. I miss creating in you an image I longed to see in myself, like two threads occasionally meeting at intervals of time and space.
I miss the secrets behind your eyes and the smile I dreamt was profound and beautiful.
I miss the hope of you, which was really the longing for a life of beauty and understanding.
I miss pretending I knew you and you knew me. I miss your bright spots in my dark days … I miss shining onto you my dearest wish for your happiness.
To reveal myself I am no longer a figure of desire, but to not reveal myself I am not truly myself, I am a shadow of a monster on my worst day, I’m a ghost haunting my body, not a soul seen through a plaintive word or smile or gesture. And I am at my best not in my cup nor quip, but l’esprit d’escalier… the wit on the staircase, comebacks better left for my notebooks or to renewed silence set serenely behind a mysterious smile.
Too much light, too many open doors and windows, too many candles glowing too brightly, burning twice as fast, illuminating darkness all around me, always looking for that hint of color, that fresher air, that rain storm and later sun to make the clouds and the sea more terrible and more beautiful. To feel and see it all more intensely. That’s what life is for, isn’t it? That’s what makes the pain more bearable?
The returned love which dies, and the love returned without reply? That’s what makes the grim and the grey take on luminous shades against the backdrop of the sea inside, the waves and crests, the pull back, the crashing over, and the light always lit, whether we draw the curtains or fling them open again after a long slumber.