I want to write.
I desperately, passionately and vehemently feel the burning desire to connect. Connect the thoughts in my head to the words that these thoughts should shape into. It should be natural I’d imagine. After all, isn’t that precisely what I’ve been doing all these days, months and years since you walked into my life? You walked, waltzed, hid, scuttled and ran, in and out of my life a few times now. Over time, I got used to that.
The absences, the hurt, the angst and the smiles that forgot the tears.
The laughter and the screams.
The declarations and the curtain of lies each of us hid under.
The truths that couldn’t be called truths anymore coz they morphed into lies that breathed honesty in every syllable uttered.
Confusing and confused, the web got darker, thicker and stickier.
Yet, through all of that maze, we reached clarity. Both of us had it. We did, didn’t we? Yes, we did. There was this spark of clarity that threw blinding light on us, drawing us into the other’s nakedness. I could see you, and I know I didn’t hide from you.
You, am sure found your peace, coz you wanted this. You wanted and I gave it to you. Sure, you’ve asked before and I have given you, and trust me, I want to give you whatever you want, but up until now, couldn’t give it you wholeheartedly. There was a selfish streak within, to be happy despite causing discomfort. See, am not so noble after all. I craved you for selfish reasons.
I was the happiest with you in my life. I am not sad now, but even. Yet, it isn’t the same kind of abandon and reckless happiness that makes me sparkle. The stars in my eye, the sheen in my skin, and the glow in my face. The heart raced just a bit quicker in anticipation, and the words.
By God, the words. My precious words. They flowed. Abundant, thick, luscious and juicy. Angst, love, lust and wisdom vying with each other. They danced to the tune my heart sang in. They scampered into little couplets, sonnets, arrangements that I never knew I could put them in, all by themselves.
Orchestrated by everything within me ignited by you.
The orchestra’s disbanded itself.
I drop a tear or two some days when I can afford the luxury to mourn.
For my babies, my words. My muse.
These months, I have nightmares. My letters mock me, full of scorn and anger and an occasional revenge. They threaten to leave me if I don’t do something quick. They lay in a pile, tired, bored and rusted. Lethargic, fat and unhealthy. Almost sick. Breathing their last few moments before they leave to find a better home.
I am going to have to let them go. Can’t have blood on my fingers. Not the blood of my words.
The trade off has been fair.
Your peace for my muse and words.
Like Belgian dark chocolate. The kind that I sent you last and ones that dried up and tasted like hard rocks in the cold? Yeah, they taste bittersweet. Like how my tears would taste, if you’d kiss me. Now.