There was just your story and my story.
You’ve got the love brain.
I guess we never realize how toxic someone is until we breathe fresher air. So to you, deary, I hope you find the oxygen to your hydrogen gas. Someone fluid like water that looks through your cracks and sees what you have inside like water seeping through a broken vase. I hope you find that someone to have a strong bond with. A bond that can return to its old fluid state even after turning into ice in your on and off relationship. And when you meet that person, I hope you meet the chemistry as well. S/he’ll be the postive to your negatives and you’ll be the positive to his negatives. As if soulmates are born with polarities made for each other.
Perhaps when my walls came down, your feelings went along with it.
Perhaps as I empty another bottle of wine, I come to see how your words were too.
I heard a bird sing when I woke up this morning and I remembered how different it was to be so inspired.
Then I come across our old song and realize how people never put the song on their car or on the radio anymore.
Perhaps as the trends change, people too.
We live in a world where black is darker than white even when white is a combination of all colours. People fear the vast emptiness of the night and forget to look up and see that it only takes one small circle of white light to brighten our world. For the lover crying at the corner of the bed, for the man with the other woman, for the lost who fell hopeless when the lights faded, and for the most of humanity, faith escapes at night.We hold on to broken dreams. We play with the possibilities. We trust our dreams on dying stars.
It scares me
to have that someone who can look at you as if you could not be more complex than a jigsaw puzzle.
Who is able to turn the little things you have told into pictures and puzzle pieces. That someone who tries to figure you out. Right when you taught things were hard, it scares me to have that one person unexpectedly come and laymanize things for you.
That someone who can view you as a simplified equation even after you have painted yourself with strong opinions just to cover your lack of factual knowledge. That someone who sees your lapses, knows that you are an erroneous problem but chooses not to count you as an invalid question. That someone who instead looks at you quizzically and corrects the wrong parts so you could finally be solved.
It scares me. It does. To have that someone who got you “all figured out”.
Scars are just scars. They do not hurt any more. It is always the freshest wound that hurts most.
Scars tell their stories and it is those stories that hurt; not the scars themselves but the memories brought about when you emotionally rip off that patched up mark on your skin to have the scenes of your flesh and his flesh on the same setting, replayed on your mind.
Sometimes. Well. Sometimes.
Sometimes we do not need someone to erase the scars. Somehow we do not even feel the need for someone to serve as our vent. Not someone to listen to our life story, to listen to our tragedy and love us even after our dark history. Not someone to help us carry our luggage… burdens? Or someone to show us our future, our happily ever after. Not someone to show us how happy we could be.
We just need someone to be there. To smell the sweet scent of the same air. To share the silence of the night. To just be there.