I was
developing feelings for you.
That,
despite me knowing what was in store or NOT in store for me – a mutuality.
Maybe I
have challenged myself too far. From the get go, you had been nothing short of
elusive. Pushed my luck still. Won a couple steps ahead. Didn’t mind falling
back a thousand steps back every chance you get to hurt me. You may argue how
the hell “hurt” happened when you did nothing but be kind. No, not by any
deliberate effort but by not doing anything, by not feeling anything, by not
acknowledging that I was developing feelings for you.
You’re too
kind, too safe that it hurts. It hurts that I want you to feel for me too but
your wall’s too high to climb, too thick to melt. Or that even when, on several
occasions, you reclined enough for me to reach for you – and you to reach for
me – it remained a whacking world between us. That world of your deep-seated
beliefs, in which I may belong, with which I may, in every word, agree, all set
in an extrinsically harmonical motion, all acceptable and tolerable except to
be with you. Alone. Just you and I…as I develop feelings for you.
Because as thoughts
run deep and varied in my head, so do the many episodes of nightmare and daymare
I imagine you being with somebody else, or new, or with whoever has been
allowing himself to develop feelings for you while you conveniently and
consistently deny a hefty amount of which in return. Haven’t come to grips with
the idea of passion and indifference marrying together. How could they? How
could you?
I miss you, Mot Mot.
I miss the warmth of your every kiss.
I miss how it has always been a tryst.
I miss how I surrounded myself with orange because you love orange, despite me hating it because in my eye, you're all apple - dangerously sweet.
I miss how I surrounded myself with orange because you love orange, despite me hating it because in my eye, you're all apple - dangerously sweet.
I miss you driving me home, me walking you
home.
And the risk we carried with each embrace, or
the spoon you’d raise.
Now, all this missing is useless.
All this pining fruitless.
I’m sorry I have left you.
I’m sorry there went myself, snuggling into the
blanket of self-preservation.
I’m sorry I have developed feelings for you.
I’m sorry I have developed feelings for you.