Saudade

 My mom told me that birds fly, the sky is blue, and God forbid I fell in love with you.

Seems like a million years ago since I first saw your face, passing by in the hallway of dimmed lights and bleak walls. Feels like a million years ago since your little eyes looked high whenever you smiled. It’s been 3 years, actually, or maybe even more, to feel to be loved right. How saddening is that? first time I felt love was when I was 10, and never before, never after. How saddening it is that you would only be like that with me and only me?

“To love is to be seen”

Some poet or writer said this phrase, and I think you got this imprinted on your forehead, but why only just for me? What about those people you promised to love but always missed the shot and came back to me? I know I will always be the one you first sang a song on your rustic guitar when I cried and held me. I know you know I will always remember that, however long that has happened, and yet you won’t say anything to me. To love is to be seen; it may be imprinted on your forehead, but there will always be something else imprinted in your heart. Which changes every now and then.

Your absence used to disturb me, but now I've found peace within, though traces of longing linger. Sometimes, when I see the margins of the books I gave you and your old annotations, nostalgia washes over me, and tears fall like rain, and I yearn. How beautifully we aligned in a world that screamed chaos, a world that called us depressed and weird, a world where I felt you were my other half.

My other half

I still believe you are, but now we no longer reside in the same world. There was a timeline where you and I spoke the same language and curated the same spells to curse on people, but now you have travelled through time, and I am still in between paths. We sang the same songs; we wrote the same poems, but the difference was- mine was for you, but yours was never about me.
You left me notes and flowers in notebooks we shared, you poised the way through the hallway with the sweet mist you sprayed because I would walk there too. All of that, and yet you asked me, “Why do you love me?”

You told me, loving you is the worst thing I did in life, but I wrote at least 100 poems in your name, so even if it gave me pain, I have no regrets of loving you.