Crossing
paths
Living makes people believe that you're blessed
because you have not
resulted
to closing a book
you have not
finished yet.
As if
breathing is something
I choose to do.
No.
I lived because somewhere,
along those roads,
she existed.
Unaware
of the endless dialogues of us
I had held
before she even gets to touch it.
No.
She will never get to touch it.
She will never get to see
how beautiful
the world I had built
for the both of us.
No.
It is not beautiful.
Because surely
it cannot compare
with her eyes
that makes me feel like
it contains everything
that exists
in this world.
It cannot compare
with her ability
to make someone
feel insanely alive
that even breathing
falls entirely short.
It cannot compare
with her smile
that possesses
an instinct of its own
landing right when it must.
No.
I am not blessed.
Because being blessed
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means standing the same ground
as her.
Being blessed
means finally reaching a destination,
an end of a road
that leads to her.
To be blessed
is for the world to stop spinning,
for every river to stop flowing.
Because only in that silence
could I ever inhabit
the same world as her.
Would she ever understand
my situation
perfectly?
Because perfectly means
pulling her out of momentum
and into a stillness
where only the quiet of breath remains.
Would she be able to feel
this genuine,
terrifying connection
of almost inevitability?
Because feeling it
means knowing the ending
of a story
before it ever gets to exist.
And even if a time would come
that I realize
the road does not lead to her,
I will still close my door,
my eyes,
my everything,
and remember how her eyes
once held every part of me.
How she was able
to provide
a life
more than the air does.
How her smile saved me,
landing softly,
precisely when it must.
Our story
is like a book
left unopened.
Yet knowing the end
changes nothing
about the way it fills the room
she left behind.
What a great find.
