Thursday, June 24, 2010

I can write the saddest lines tonight..


The night wind turns in the sky and sings
I can write the saddest lines tonight
I loved her, sometimes she loved me too..


We've said goodbye too many times before, so there's no reason this should be any different.

He said the first time it hurt, the second time he thought it'd kill him, the third, he thought he'd kill himself so by now he was immune to the pain she caused him. They were a both a mess of their own kind and so deserved each other. He wrote her verses in Pushto, she sang to him in French. Neither understood the other but between them flew a harmony, the kind that unites a violin and a piano. They too were synced by a stranger's language which they wrote on blank paper, him always on white, her on scented cream, both in black ink. Sometimes when the letters reached her, they had been creased by a hundred fingers. His letters smelled of his cologne.
'I love you,' he said. She was too terrified to say anything.
'I love you,' she said. 'Thank you,' said he.
He wanted to kiss her but saw the tension in her jaw. Maybe she wasn't attracted to him after all. And why would she be? She was perfect to him.
She felt his breath on her face but she knew she must hold back because in her mind, insanity was allowed to one person at a time.
Caught between the right thing and what felt right. It's a miserable place to be in.
Today, again my heart calls out in desperate longing. Today, again, I distract it like a child.
How can I ever burn your letters? And how can I ever let go till I keep them?

On nights like these, I held her in my arms
I kissed her greatly under the infinite sky
She loved me, sometimes I loved her too
How could I not have loved her huge, still eyes..


One day he was kissing her neck, her collar bones. The other, he talked about the pride and honour of women. Did all men want virgins who acted like sluts with them? Or was that an indicator on the expected longevity of their relationship(?).

She never understood what he meant when he said it made him want her more. Was that his sad excuse for not putting up a fight? For not telling her to keep away from all the other men who hovered by her elbow, for asking her every time who she was going out with when her answer would always be the same, for letting go each time? She respected the fact that he had a past that he could not change, and was proud, so proud of how far he had come from where they met. He talked about all these other women who had once mattered to him. It didn't matter. He said he wanted her jealous. And then one day she was.

He remembered the days of msn, the day he claimed he was his friend and she instantly took off her display picture. He remembered that as the moment he knew he was in love.

I can write the saddest lines tonight,
To think I don't have her, to feel I have lost her,
Hear the vast night, vaster without her
Lines fall on the soul, like dew on the grass
What does it matter that I could not keep her
The night is fractured and she is not with me
That is all.


I wish you could have seen me that night, after I told you to not wait and you said you wouldn't. I wish you could have seen me all those nights I said goodbye to you.
The first time a cigarette parted my lips. The first time I was up all night crying. My first visit to the shrink. My first decline into cyclical breakdown.
Do you think this is easy?

Each time, they got back, it was more heated, more intense. There was a new depth in conversation, new tenacity of grasp.

He sits and writes her a hundred letters, but he doesn't dare send them because she was the one who walked away.
She sits and writes him a hundred letters, but she doesn't send them because that wasn't curing the problems he refused to deal with. Surely true unhappiness was better than doubtful joy.

Maybe we just tell ourselves these stories to compartmentalize losses and lies. The truth, plain and simple, is they don't send those letters is because with they will dart back to each other and the cycle of boom and bust will then begin. And each successive time, it is harder to say goodbye.

Fragments of my soul live in you. Fragments of your soul live in me. And each time we walk away, fragments of us just die.

I don't love her, that's certain, but perhaps I love her,
Love is brief: forgetting lasts so long..

6 comments:

  1. most men want virgins and then expect them to act like sluts.

    this poem - oh, this poem --- it breaks my heart every time I read it. Somehow I can relate to it. Sigh.

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  2. Neruda :) - I love that poem. Esp. the lines you have quoted.

    'Caught between the right thing and what felt right. It's a miserable place to be in.'

    And I know how that feels.

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  3. This is beautiful. So sad, but spell-binding. You've really woven the poem quotes and your own words so smoothly, that I think for 10 seconds I went off into another world. Lovely work :)

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  4. Neruda! and such a lovely post too! I follow your blog now :)

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  5. I almost didn't recognize the poem- it was that well woven into your words.
    Beautiful post!

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  6. Love is brief: forgetting lasts so long..

    i love this part. :)

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