That particular image of you looking as if you can’t smile even wider when the photo was taken, which I even saved on my laptop, keeps on flashing on my mind. It’s like breathing, or blinking; it automatically sticks to every thought happening inside my head and replaces the image my eyes see that for a moment it’s as if it’s the actual thing I’m seeing. But it’s not. It’s just a thought, and the thought that it is only a thought is heartbreaking.
Black and white, words from poems are as powerful as a painting – even more powerful in terms of conjuring images, if you ask me. And we often associate beauty with nature. But metaphors can be understatement and to write you a poem, I might find it hard to articulate what I really feel. What I really feel. What..
I wish my heart can grow mouth to speak up what exact sensations it feels, instead of pulsating in such fast pace, pumping my face with a blush. I wish my emotions recognize themselves, or atleast I wish I recognize them so as not to get confused one from the other. It’s not that I might confuse sadness with bliss and cry instead of laughing when I’m actually happy. No, it’s not the case. The thing is, what’s actually confusing are emotions not often felt, not the vague ones, but the precise ones. Do I really love him? Or am I only infatuated?
How do you answer that without being confused? Without looking inside, deep, deep, down there. I’m not even done with this dilemma, another one appears. Do we have a chance? For someone who’s been chased after by girls, by girls!, I’m not only a someone inside your sphere, I’m actually out of your league. Way, way out. I’m aware it’s a cliche and a general knowledge how unrequited love feels, but really, why do you have to be born with a face to die for? It’s a painful reminder how I can never be with you. It’s a screaming reality how handsome you are, how hard I can still fall for you, if it can even get harder. I smile when I see your face, I cry afterwards. Because the truth is, falling for you distorted my emotions. The hurt and the pleasure register simultaneously; the concept of right and wrong forgotten. You, my dear, are a heartbreaking ecstasy.