Hellebore

Some nights, your absence rises from the bed and wakes me up. I’m dead tired but there are vacuities and sadness right now that won’t allow me to have my rest.
 
I don’t blame you for going but I regret the fact that I can never follow you. This is death. Irreconcilable and excruciatingly painful. I doubt if anyone can ever genuinely move on after each incident.
 
It’s Christmas again. A bland, empty celebration that I have to endure without you in it. Then comes new year. Then, twenty five days after that will mark the day I lost you for breast cancer.
 
Perhaps I will sleep through it all, like I always do. The carols, the lights, the fireworks, the feast. They have all ceased meaking meanings. Despite my writing skills I can’t even compose and give you a proper eulogy and I am so sorry for that.
 
Thing is, I don’t want to talk about you because it makes everything final. I don’t want anyone recounting your memories either because they do it in past tense.
 
Almost thirteen years. It’s still painful. And I am still counting.
 
Happy holidays, wherever you are. I love you in the most human and profound way that I can mean.
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Tales of Anielou

It’s funny, somehow, the things I learnt about you.

A month ago, I was gravely disappointed at how you have insulted the realm of reason. I have expected more from you but I guess you are not mentally — let alone psychologically — capable of identifying and resisting the superficial belongingness stemming from false acquaintances.

You are just like them, a failure and a parasite who find comfort in justifying your own incompetence.

Last week I met her, your former colleague, and she told me what you did. You go to the office at 11, take your lunch at 12, she said. And you never return until past 4 in the afternoon. You failed to see the gravity of your every act, and your cognitive faculty is too dull to process the magnitude of your negligence.

You said I am the unsympathetic one but you have been wrong all along. Of the two of us I was — and I am — the sympathetic person and I understand things and people and you don’t. But you pretend to do so — the same way that you pretend to be on time and never late when your bosses are around.

Worse, you could not bring yourself to care — you self-absorbed parasite who cannot move past the remains of your lover who has deserted you long ago.

You harboured anger towards those you should have given your solicitude, all the while deluding yourself that you are capable of love you are not. You have successfully devalued the complexity of that experience and wielded it as a shield for your cheap ego.

I could elaborate all the defense mechanisms you have employed — denial, regression, sublimation, displacement — but it will only defeat its designated purpose. You have already unveiled yourself and exposed your own pretense and incompetency and above all, absence of honor.

You have done damages that your tiny mind will not be able to grasp. You’ve delivered a razor-sharp pain that your non-existent heart will never be able to understand.

In the first day of your colleague at work, you told her you are the supervisor before rudely asking for her identity. You like that huh, a drunken sense of power that will never bring back your past lover no matter how loud you cry in the social media but makes you feel in control, somehow. It’s a defense mechanism called displacement.

It’s funny, somehow, the things I learnt about you. You are just like them — selfish, imprecise, and short-sighted. A chronic liar and a usurper. You pretend to be but you are never the sympathetic one.

I was that person all along.

Our entire history will be typewritten

I will love you like the 90s. There will be no social media hype for us — no Twitter or Instagram selfies, not even a Facebook post that professes the depth of my affection for you.

We won’t need that in constructing our world.
 
Instead, I will get a 1935 typewriter from an antique shop and write you a letter. I will press it in-between your book pages or leave it in random places — on your pillow, in your pocket — for you to discover in random days.
 
I will watch you read and reread it, and I will find delight in seeing your secret smile. Understand that I wrote it for you and no one else.
 
I will ask you for a walk on the beach. We will talk about life. We’ll bring a chaperone, a kid preferably, and she will trail behind us and collect sea shells. I will kiss you sneakily when she’s not looking.
 
The wind and the open sky will serve as our witnesses. I will crown your hair with purple thistle.
 
I will write a poem for you. Better yet, I will dedicate an entire volume of work — like F. Scott Fitzgerald to Zelda — and I will make it strong enough to stand beside your name.
 
In the cozy afternoon of every summer, we will sneak in the movie theater — passed the guard and the ticket lady — and we will revel in popcorn and old films. We will walk out after that, hand-in-hand, giggling at our secret joke.
 
I will recite random verses as we stroll on — past the mannequins behind the glass window in that lane of RTWs.
 
There’s a vinyl in my room. I will ask you to come up, gingerly, through my window. I’m never good at dancing but I will ask you to dance with me.
 
We’ll play Eric Clapton, Sixpence None The Richer, and Beatles. We’ll sing our lungs out until we’re exhausted. We’ll collapsed on my bed. The online community will never know how we slip into intimacy as the night blooming jasmine soothe our tendrils.
 
There will be no social media post about it. Our kisses will be a metaphor. I will love you like the 90s. Our entire history will be typewritten.