Eulogies to my love, my dream

They said I should write about you.

"It's therapy", they said.

I wondered how many books I'd need to encompass all the complexities that were woven together to create you.

Or locks to keep this paranoia banging at the back of my head out.

How long would it take for the negative nostalgia to erupt onto those neat pages like hot lava?

This fragile paper would burn before I could get to the tip of the iceberg.

They said I should stop thinking about you.

"Distract yourself", they said.

But don't they see?

I'm just a puppet moving on the strings of this relentless heart.

It yells jump and I reach for the stars.

It pushes me off the edge and I fall for you all over again.

Thinking about you is a habit my mind cannot wad off and I haven't the willpower to veto my way out of it.

Love, I've been dreaming of our sunsets long before the sun knew she had a curfew.

I have gone through the idea of you repeatedly in my mind.

Sketching,

Planning,

Praying,

Believing you'd be mine.

They said I should talk about you.

"It helps" , they said.

I tried, but my body refused to let your name slip from my mouth.

Oh it would have been an ugly site!

All those unwarranted syllables and intonations bouncing off my lips as if you could ever be summed up in mere decibels.

I'd rather keep you where you threaten to eat me up whole than admit that I'm losing my formerly tight grasp on you.

I wouldn't mind really.

Even if you were to traipse back here with red flags stuck to your forehead, I'd still drink from your cup and make an overdraft.

I'd eat up your lies and like a perfect little Oliver Twist ask for seconds.

I swear I'd let you.

They said it's time to say goodbye.

"You need the closure", they said.

So I dressed up in black.

alking slowly towards the place where we first met.

Here where I always thought you were excellent at hide and seek, but it turns out you had left long before I started looking.

I sit on the kindergarten swings and pull out my book and fancy pen.

I hope to write you a letter about this obsession or passion, whatever it is.

I hope to bury you along with all this resentment I brought to this event .

I hope you find a home in these pages and perhaps grow a couple of roots.

I'm going to scribble my last words to you from my relentlessly shaking hands.

I'll hold the pen between fingers exhausted from knocking and gnawing at an imaginary door. Fingers that finally grasped the concept of love and loss.

And on the last page I will write in letters as bold as I was today,

"Here I buried my childhood dream. I hope to God it was a seed. "