It was not their fault that they were reluctant to love them. It was their own mind that rebelled when they thought of falling in love with him. For them, it was too much to give themselves to him.
Every moment they spent in his presence felt like a prayer; turned towards the gods like:
“I beg of you,
Don't let our paths stray,
Let us stay,
Together forevermore,
And may you have mercy on my heart.”
It was not their fault that they cursed the gods. There was no denying how this was going to end but they still went through with it. There is a point where suffering equals reward, a needlepoint apex.
They had no objections to him, not at all. They loved him with all of their heart and their soul and their body. Their fingertips were bursting with love, to the point they were scared they were going to combust. They had to write.
Poetry and sonnets and rhymes, all scratched onto paper. Every synonym of love fell into haiku. Five syllables of love, seven of infatuation, and five more of adoration. Their hands warmed at the thought of holding his hands and they were scared they would begin to burn.
“A tragic story,
Tragic in harmony,
Seeing double.
Blame takes to no one.
Fairness points no fingers.”
They needed time to settle. Their chest held many feelings, all confusing; a tempest set aflame. They held themselves isolated for this, yet slept soundly for the knowledge he would wait till their exile ran out.
“Beheld visions of fantasy,
Utopias of stardust,
All out of reach.
Yet still,
A vision,
Vast and unending,
Blocks their view,
And they are content.”
They were not much of a dreamer, couldn’t convince themselves to sleep deeply enough. Insomnia held them in its grip, set them tossing and turning, plagued by restlessness. And yet, they dreamt anyway.
There was nothing that could stop them from loving him, yet they cannot deny the similarity of night terrors; a racing heart and a sense of something out of place left behind.
It was hard sometimes to see the bright side to loving him, blurry haze blocking out their memory when he strayed too far, too long. It was hard to think of this love as anything other than a disease, a terrifying reality. They needed to cleanse themselves, decontaminate their infected heart.
It was a hard topic to think about, yet life cares not. Life is not the spring goddess leaving flowers sprouting in her wake. Why would Life pause to examine a single person, when it has thousands of lives to sift through? It is an unyielding force, a neutral sense of cause and effect.
Their pen longed to still when the words in their mind kept distance. It’s frustrating and almost too hard, to write when they cannot speak; needing to convey just how much they needed and loved him but unable to pull words or actions. The feelings that lived in their chest sank to their stomach, weighed down by frustration and fear, all matters of hesitance.
“The dissonance,
A flaw,
A balance not met.
What a sickening sight.
Love blossomed into words,
And a lead balloon,
Sinking into depths of hesitance.
What went wrong?
There is steel here,
Snapped in half by tempest,
Along the way,
Something has broken.”
Another flaw to add to their list.
But they have long been complacent with their flaws. Why waste time agonizing over what you cannot fix? If they keep writing, then it will ease, they could breathe for a moment. A moment of rest before resuming.
It will come back eventually, yet that seems so far away, now. ‘Eventually’ sounds like a problem to stir up in the future.