An Open Letter
to someone, i barely knew.. but loved so deeply anyway
When my friends ask me why I decided to stay, despite the obvious uncertainty this thing between us exhibits, I always tell them how I, too, have no idea—not even asingle thought—not even a gist.
The truth is, however, I [ actually ] know.
But I am so ashamed of it. I am so ashamed to admit that for the very short time we've spent together, and the very few moments we've shared, I already flipped—I already felt infinite.
I am not used to feeling this way. I am not used to the fact that you made me feel things I never knew I could feel—feelings I never knew even existed.
It opened a path that made me discover new ways to navigate life. It made me know myself more. It revealed things I yearn and long for that I didn't even know were inside of my system—were a part of my being.
Hence, I am terribly desperate—desperate to tell everyone how you've made me love things so deeply I became my ultimate self.
But then, what's the point of telling them? What's the point of entertaining the thought? When I know even from then that you don't feel the same way. That what we had isn't actually something we had but had been something only I felt.
And if only I can love you in a totally different way, just to preserve the very soul of our connection, I would. But I don't know how. I don't even know if I want to. For you've turned me into a person who is so beautifully enamoured by how life has been lately that I am now profoundly infatuated by the idea of being embraced by you as i sit underneath the trees and dappled sunlight; as i listen to songs that brings me comfort; as i watch films that touches my soul; and as i compose and write about stuff that reflects things that feeds my being.
I know, however, that eventually, i'll have to loosen up my grip and let you go.
But until then, let me take my time observing the night sky and each star as it dies and blends within the galaxy, hoping that, in time, the metaphor this phenomenon holds is what our story will be or is actually made of. That, eventually, everything else that makes me think of the tenderness I feel toward you will perish—that the language you and i speak will no longer be spoken; the connection between us is no longer binding—and this feeling, despite its intensity, will no longer linger.