February 16

I often think of her and wonder if she were thinking of me, dreaming of me, talking about me, missing me. She walked into my life and took up all the space in my heart and I willingly allowed it. And then she walked out and took over every space in my mind and I willingly allowed it. But she didn’t walk out; I pushed her away because I feared abandonment. I feared she would leave me so I pushed her away before she did. Will she forgive me my fears if she knew that they are deeply rooted in the days of my childhood when I would watch everything I build break away? Those little blocks…they all kept falling and I couldn’t stop it. How could I stop her from breaking away from me, from falling out of love with me?

I often think of her and wonder if she suffers my absence in the dark of the night, when the moon cradles among white clouds, just like I suffer in the company of alcohol. I want to believe it to be true. I live my nights awake fearing the regret of my decision. It was easier to believe that she suffers too than to trust her with my heart, with something I didn’t have control on. But if she were suffering now, didn’t it mean that she wanted to be with me? Should I have embraced her and not let her go? Will I ever know? These questions with no definite answers unlike her. Unlike her. I wouldn’t know.

I often think of her and wonder if she picked out her favourite pieces of memory of us and played it in her mind just to relive the happiness of being with me. I imagine her lying at the edge of her bed, starring at the fan that ran in circles, croaking, and she rummaging through the moments saved as memories, picking one out, and then smiling as it played. Sometimes rewinding some of them, like the time, I told her how her chest under dim yellow lights revealed the tattoo of a blossoming lotus when her shirt slipped off her body. It was like magic; she was beautiful. And I had all of that beauty in these very hands, against my lips. I let it slip away. All of it.

I often think of her and wonder if we could turn back time, would I choose her? Would she choose me? I might not. But she would choose me in every form of reality, in my best and at my worst, she would choose me every time. I might not. And I hush that voice down saying this, fearing that she might hear it or the wind might carry it to her. If she knew of it, if she heard it, would she still choose me?

Such thoughts keep haunting me that I can’t have her and I don’t have it in me to have her. It’s like watching those little blocks tumble and fall but only this time I have given up.


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