The final piece I shall write for him.
This is the first time that I've posted something on Protagonize without caring if people actually read it or not. I just needed to make this public, this decision to move on, even though it hurts.
Even if I'm the only one who ever reads it, I do believe this has become my favorite piece of writing I've ever written.
If I listen closely, I do believe I can hear a forlorn organ playing some sort of funeral march in the back of my mind.
Let me reach you. Let me reach you.
In the middle of this no-name coffee shop, with even the feathery promises of sunlight threatening to leave me behind, I flail in the impending darkness to find the words that accurately express the song of my spirit.
The organ plays its music a little louder, and I wish it would swallow up my thoughts entirely. My mind is taut with the tempestuous acknowledgement of my heart being further tarnished by the experience of feeling this way about someone I can never have.
And it frustrates me. All these years of saving my heart for Someone Special to nurture it, knowing all the hard work I've put into remaining uncompromised by an unreciprocated affection, and you come along and dash it all.
I touch my cold fingers to my face, trying to warm my hands with the fleeting exhalation of unused oxygen, nitrogen, and all those other gases that keep me physically alive by filling my lungs, even though they do nothing to buoy me above these waves you've caused. It's strange, the fact that the air I'm expelling from my body is warm. One would think it'd be frigid, after encountering the depths of concealed affection inside my spirit.
I recall a story I wrote a century and a half ago - or was it just a couple years ago? - about a naive young woman, Alina, who falls in love with a beautifully broken man whose past would make a demon blush. His name was Alexander. And it dawns on me that I am Alina, and you are Alexander, even though the beauty I always saw in Alexander is nothing but ashes, next to you. And just as she yearns to nurture him, to fix his anguish, so I sit by this window, longing for you to be here so that I could list all the reasons I have fallen so hard for you.
I never thought I would believe anyone to be as beautiful as Alexander, for he was the embodiment of many years' worth of characters whose personalities I had fallen in love with. But you - and here is the blasphemy of it all - you are more precious to me than any character I could ever dream of writing. Their loveliness means nothing.
A friend once told me, "I love you, and if I love you, then you can't be unlovable."
Your insecurities are ungrounded. All they do is make me love you more.
And this is why, as my fingers plink onto the keyboard with a renewed vigor, I am tempted to shed these tears in my eyes, crystal ink that betrays all my efforts to act as though everytime I see you isn't a cataclysmic event in my life. As though a day goes by without me pleading with God for the redemption of your lovely lost soul. As though words about you haven't been filling up my prayer journal, a motif that just never fades away.
I write the final words of this - this - oh, what sort of writing is this? It was supposed to be a poem, but it's turned out to be a love letter I would never dream of giving you. It is time for me to end this writing. It is time for me to kiss your soul farewell and move on, because I cannot allow myself to be hung up over you for another day. It destroys me.
The organ is silent. The sun is gone. It is time for me to leave.