postmarked

 

I hate that you are giving me more to be confused about, when these days, I believe I am more confused than I have ever been. But it’s a good kind of loathing, if there is such, this hatred I directed at you to absolve myself of my sins. How, above everything else for example, I am guilty of collecting images of you and imagining myself holding them in my hand. I count them over and over again, like pebbles, one for every day.

I have grown afraid of how mindful I am of every minute movement — the bumping of knees, the playful grazing of fingers, how there is truth to when people say a fleeting touch could send shivers through a spine. I wonder at its implications. I despise how I find you confusing and yet, despite my lack of patience for things, much more people, you keep me on my toes, certain of all the things that lay in wait. I hate this very certainty, how it exists in between stares and half-meant insults hurled at each other to pass the time, to dupe ourselves into thinking the minutes are flying right past us, and timing — proper timing — is sooner than we think.

Most of all, I hate the pauses in between and how they rarely come to us whenever we are together, but how they stretch to days — sometimes, even weeks — when you are away. When you are near, the words come easily, no delays between a thought and an utterance. I am not allowed to even think of what they mean for, like you, those moments are elusive. Decoding should be left to the experts, I’d rather stand here and marvel at how you are here, too.  It is only when I am left to myself that I am forced to be alone with your stories, your laughter ringing in my ears.

You have this way of looking at the world — you are not as cynical as I am, you retain faith. That is something in an age that prides itself at how the truth could be told and twisted as many times one wishes to. I hate how you prove me wrong everytime I tell you this, even if I won’t ever consider admitting that you did — that you do, each and everytime.

 

 

 

 

 

this is perhaps the cheesiest thing I have written in years. I hate you, you self-righteous, egotistic, assuming, optimistic, delusional, brilliant son of a gun. stay away from me and all my emotional baggage you are helping me unload. bastard.

 

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