Human weakness

Darling, I must confess, in my mind you’re still around. Seems like you’re still around. Seated on this table. Drinking by the bar. Moving faintly in and out of my focus, you are still seeping into my system.

I’ve had dreams where I see your back melting into a crowd. I’ve felt you deep meaning through the air, where I can’t hope to understand but watch a perfect careless you fall slowly and sorely away, dazzling me as you disappear.

Darling, you must know that ever since then I’ve thought about this moment we’re bound to end up in. It’s become part of an elaborate plan, a well thought-out sequence where each of the words I’ve carefully tasted would come spilling out my mouth. I know the exact look, the exact urge in my voice. The exact tone. I’ve considered every possible scenario, every place. And nothing, I mean nothing could ever seem to do enough justice to tell you just how much I feel- if we’ll be honest for a bit.

Because in every direction I see, every girl I reach, you’re still someone I look for. In every moment I get, I still find you rendering all the world’s love worthless.

See you’ve left me feeling unfinished. Hanging around in place as you rode away to somewhere I don’t belong.

So when you did shine your eyes on me, all I could really think about was turning away. For it must be true, when you said that love could exist without expecting anything in return. Glimmering, glaring, giving flowers for no reason at all. Unconditional, was it- an idea I could never fully accept. How wrong was I? But our stories were never the same kind.

This here is human weakness. The type that strips you naked, leaves you humbled, causes you to do all sorts of stupid and obsessive things like this last letter to you, my love.

I swear we’re old enough to know better. We’re both too much of a mess. Hoping for another chance to wreak some havoc, make a break for it, get some kind of redemption

like meeting you somewhere again, down the line.

Maybe the star doesn’t even exist any more. Yet sometimes that light seems more real to me than anything. – Haruki Murakami

Photo by Maurizio Marcato

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