I should have talked to you. Your soft smiles were an indication enough, I should have stopped you, but you were always so immersed in your ways. Shy glances and sweet sighs. So many confessions twirled on your tongue, like sweet hard candy, melting before I could ever hear their crunch. Every once in while you would smile, let the secrets reflect in your eyes. And, I would forget. Forget your pensive stares. To remember what was in front of me. A mirage, that was all you. You and a semblance of me. A shadow that bore our names. Us. Together. In a different lifetime. In an alternate reality. But this, I cannot forget; we are here, in the now, in this place. In this actuality, you don’t talk and I don’t hear. We don’t speak and you are not near. I live with regret, for the things I didn’t do, the words I didn’t let escape in submission to my fears. Perhaps, it is too late. Time is too far gone to say, I should have stopped you. I should have talked to you.
I have been afraid to write of love lately. It takes away too much out of me.
Love is the essence of living. And there are days, which these days are most days when I feel it hurts too much to speak of love with careless abandon. I did so once. Perhaps even dared to do it twice. Once all was said done, I was left with a mere shell of my words.
Just as the grass will turn green in spring and the leaves, a myriad of colours in October, the Earth will become barren come winter. The sun will rise to give birth where decay once lay. It will rise to burn life to the ground. The rain will fall when the Earth is parched. It will fall even when the Earth has had too much to drink. This is the balance of nature.
Your body grows until it begins to shrink. You rise and fall with every breath. You disintegrate and renew each day. Year after year. Month after month. Day after day. The cycle repeats. Like love and and heartbreak. You love. You hurt. You forget and you learn to love again. This is the balance of life. Always precise. Not an event out of line.
Don’t question the timing of things. Everything happens precisely when it should. As it should. Precisely.
Roots of this discomfort were bred with our love. Sounds of pleasure easily replaced by an eerie silence. The night does not condone the sound of silent tears and the day cannot make to love to haunted smiles.