Who are we lying to, dearest?; prose

I think the agony of loving you stirred more within me than the consistent screeches of refusal I felt within my bones. The veins thumping in a knawing sort of way against them as if to stop their movement- each time they moved rhythmically to put my flesh next to yours. Though it made me feel something, and that was enough. “This can’t possibly end well.” “If I don’t feel his hand cascade through my hair it might end me.”

A year later- the only thing I ask of you- is that you please use the same  desolate cruelty in each lifetime you stray away from me. At least allow me to love the familiarity of it enough to bear its despair. “Let’s be practical.” Is what you said. Since then we both can’t seem to differ from a daydream and our reality. Practicality exists at neither end of that pole.

I do hope you let me burden you too, in return. I’ll gladly hold that dead heart of yours and beg for it to beat. Just once. One slight thrum to signal it’s alive. Only then will I know that you’ll feel the pain of this obsession as dreadfully as I do.You veil your awareness of our situation well, my eyesight’s always been better than yours.

I don’t know who we’re lying to, certainly not god- definitely not each other rather. Perhaps ourselves? We both became one another’s muses for destruction, we foolishly thought that if our work was profound enough it could become reality. As if it could somehow live if we had truly poured our heart and soul into this vain masterpiece, or if we yearned just deeply enough fate may pity us and turn our cards around.

Dearest, fate and time are not fickle friends of pity and forgiveness, so at the very least, let’s hope we can live within our work. The words, the art, the dreams and memories.

I remember when I once told you that I think wrath is a woman and I know pride is a man.

A year later, at the current strike of one twenty eight AM, my wrath simmers even the deepest part of the Arabian ocean between us, and your pride whispers in your ear to turn your fan on.

Truthfully, I cannot part the sea to make way for us to meet, and you cannot split the sky in half to let our maker know of our conundrum. So I set aside my anger like a hairpin forgotten in my locks of curls, and you’ll turn on the volume of your headphones lest you be reminded of your own heartbeat.

So you’ll sit there, painting my hair into your canvas, knowing you’ve forgotten what it looks like. I’ll lay on my sofa, separating my anger from this paper like salt from seawater. Maybe in another life, Fate and Time are kinder- In that life maybe I’ll sit in front of your canvas to jog your memory. In the same life, maybe you’ll fill in the ink of my pen too when I forget.

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Authors note:

If this is disappointing, I know. Please do not remind me, sigh. I apologise for being gone for so so long!! I’m transferring to a different country to continue my undergrad, my sister got married and I had lots on my mind. I’ll post something MUCH nicer to make up for.. this? I promise I will.

side note this has been in my drafts for two years now, tweaked it just a bit. Interactions are appreciated!! I don’t know if my readership thinks I’m dead or smth lmao.

Thank you as always!

-Zoha