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I first saw you in the beginning of autumn

And we first spoke when all the leaves had fallen.

I gazed at you from a distance all winter long

And by spring, we exchanged a few furtive glances,

timid nods and half waves of acknowledgement.

But I never knew you in summer.

Yet the color of your eyes was made for the season,

the warmth of the golden sunshine in your soft brown eyes.

I never saw you again.

Autumn will commence once more in a few days but will our paths converge this time around?

Will this be the coldest winter without the stalwart sight of you?

Will the rebirth of spring finally decide to make you mine?

Or will the heat of next year’s summer witness me without your presence?

If there is truly no lifetime where we are meant to be, may I bury all thoughts of you in between seasons.

But let this be an eternal shrine to your memory.

May you live forever in my words even though you will have long since died in my heart.

getting over you is my biggest hurdle.

i function on ‘out of sight, out of mind’. i hadn’t seen you in a while & it was all good. it just seems that the distance i’ve made in moving on crumbles the moment i lay my eyes on you.

and so i start over again.

Am I doomed to pine for you forever?

You were it for me.

I will always see you — in all my false lovers, in all of the stars and the scars.

I was never one to believe that dreams had underlying meanings.

To me, dreams were just our playful subconscious, something for psychology to explain away rationally, logically. But never something to be taken too deep.

I was the farthest from romanticizing them. They weren’t something magical — not a glimpse of the future nor a mirror to a parallel universe.

Maybe random flights of fancy, of lives we couldn’t live when we’re awake. Maybe I was just tired. Or stressed. Too busy. Had too much on my plate.

I was meant to forget them as soon as the transformative power of daylight anchored me back to reality, but—

I dreamt of you.

Once. Then twice.

There was no mistaking you even if you were so out of place in my dream.

And I desperately wanted to believe then that it meant something.

Were you somehow thinking of me? (Impossible.) Did I somehow cross your mind even for a fraction of a second? Did you hear someone mention my name in passing? Maybe they didn’t mean me, just someone else with the same name, but at that moment, was it me you thought of? Am I somewhere in your subconscious?

—

Oh gods, this reeks of desperation. But the universe also knows how much I’m still yearning.

For you.

Only you can haunt my dreams and make me plead for them to be some message from the stars.

You. In my dreams. Again and again, and once more. This is my poison of choice. My opium. My absinthe.

And there is no haunting more vicious than this.

There’s the Last Meeting Theory, then there’s you.

And you’re verging into never-the-last-meeting territory.

Just when I’ve made peace with the thought of never seeing you again, when I’ve accepted what I couldn’t have, when I’ve boldly declared, "I don’t like anybody", the universe dangles you in front of me, like a petulant reminder to never hope; you still wouldn’t be mine.

On a fine spring afternoon, with the rays of the sun bathing everything in gold, without any expectations, I turned — and there you were, sitting in the hallway. Lucky you didn’t hear the internal ‘holy shit!!!’ that erupted in my head, but about half my braincells died.

I knew you saw me and I think you knew I saw you, too, but it took a few silly attempts before our gazes matched and we exchanged hurried hellos, fleeting as soon as we said them.

You went on your way and I stayed there standing though I didn’t look back.

It seems you are my anti-syzygy, perfectly misaligned, a fraudulent constellation that sets my peace of mind out of whack.

Yet you are also the patron saint of this idiotic, lovesick fool.

I’d drown myself in caffeine but you are already the half-life in my bloodstream.

If I let my delusions run rampant, I’d wonder why these chance encounters. Some would say there are no coincidences, but I shouldn’t romanticize this. Let’s be honest. There is no deeper meaning here.

Back to stage one but no worries, I’ll start moving on again tomorrow.

Unrequited pt. 3

It has been over 2 months, almost 3,

since our conversation,

the one in which you rejected me.

I’ve been fine. I got on.

Never saw you again.

Even went on a 7-week vacation.

I’ve stopped talking to my friends about you.

And no one has mentioned you since.

But once in a while, in the quiet of my mind,

I find myself still thinking of you.

Dark ambient. Liminal vibes. After rain. Late nights.

They’re made for missing you & for what couldn’t be.

Every time I go on city walks under the streetlights.

But I can’t miss you ‘cause you’re not mine.

What is this melancholia?

And why do I still pine?

Somewhere between letting go & holding on,

staring blankly at the ceiling,

kneeling at the altar of dawn.

You make the sad songs make sense. I have always denied having a heart but you proved I had one, and one that recently cracked like nail to glass. And I don't want to admit it, but I am only human after all.

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After a rush of blood to the head, I finally got tired of writing prose about you.

So I made this piece instead, and if nothing else, you were at least my muse.

'Angel in the Marble' suits you as you are so, so beautiful as a work of art, and equally as untouchable.

— for Nicolas R.