Sunday, February 28, 1999

What was will never be again

I dreaded being spurned and refused to take the plunge. After I mucked things up royally, I realized that it was indeed love. Years later, she lingers; ours a still-born love.

Love, as I have been told, is equal parts hatred and affection, devoid of indifference. I loved her. I really did. I still do, to an extent. But appropriately, I loathe her absence. I despise her lips, those lips I still yearn to kiss. I despise her voice, an angelic voice that melted inhabitions, because it is merely a recollection, no longer immediate, no longer a repetition, no longer a reality. I despise her laugh and her orgiastic cries, lost to me and belonging to another. Vertigo and paralysis is all one can feel when imagining his beloved in the bed of another. I hate that recurring nightmare. I hate that faceless romantic rival. I leave him without face, holding out hope that it could still be my face. I loathe myself most of all, for squandering that time with her. I hate that I still love her.

A feeling of utter incompleteness is terribly unbearable. As I hiked a trail the other day, I remembered her being there, some time ago. When I camped out, all by my lonesome, she was there in my thoughts. And as I sat on the rocks looking at the setting sun, I wished she was there to share it. Incomplete. I am incomplete without her. It's futile though. What can I do? I hate this feeling of helplessness.

Is she my soulmate? Who knows. But I suspect there is no such thing. But I miss her all the same. I don't remember her as an object of my affection. I remember her as my partner, forever lost to me. I loved her and always will. I wish I had grown up in time to tell her.