There is no love. The tingles, the butterflies. All pure emotions forced to be felt through books. An oversimplification of the connection. Feelings so pure that one ascends.
Sharing respect for each other throughout a connection, or just lust, is called love.
Is it the pursuit that is love, or not getting it? The dreaming of her, like a sentient presence. The breathing that syncs. Awkward moments where time freezes and sticks with you. The features and the fragrance, so romanticized that I don’t remember them at all. The longing that exists, not because of love, but because of not being able to see her.
The last time I saw her, I was moving through the streets, dark at night, toward the coffee shop. The cold breeze brushing over my nose. Head fainting toward the path, the crowd doing their thing, oblivious to their surroundings. I saw her coming in my direction. Do I notice her, or just go on my way? This time, I’ll see her. For the memories that need to be resurfaced. Will she see me too?
She is close to me.
When I get ready to look at her, she is already engaged.
I had loved the distance more than the person.
Seeing her close erased the work I had done.
There was nothing left to reach for.
This is nothing like I expected. The magic is gone.
To be honest, I don’t even know her. What she used to do. What annoyed me. The reason for us not being together.
The memories lie, and they have been lying to me throughout. I had created a safe haven, naïve to think there was something beautiful. I used to love the person in front of me. The only thing I have left is her memory.
