Dear lost one,
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
Oh no, it is an ever fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken,
Love is not time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
-Shakespeare, Sonnet 116
Cupid, Shakespeare said, is blind.
Is he indeed? For I found you to be the perfect companion, and yet, you remain in my mind, my soul, my heart like carefully preserved autumn leaves, but not by me nor in the future I see...
If love is not love, which alters when it alteration finds... then was it not love that doled out such heartbreaking agony at your loss.
I will not speak of the thrill of your presence, and certainly not the effect of your smile upon me, or of your woes that extrapolated to me.
I will have you hear what I know, now that we have chosen fate over fight.
The fight for love.
That religion was an alteration, I will not agree, though I know it to be true. But I will not accept that which I felt was not love owing to this alteration.
The skies would rain, could they know of our plight. To love like the wolf loved the moon. That love, a gift of god, could be torn by a creation of man.
I do not know what the years to come will bring upon me, only that, for now, I pray you remain in my heart like a constant. So deep these feelings ran, that we did what few dare do.
I wonder if we erred, for we chose fate, without a fight. And had life taken a different path, surely, I would chose neither fate nor love. My choice, regardless of what the world is capable of saying, and damaging, would be you.
And though one day, I may forget myself, at an age of feeble mindedness and wrinkles, I hope I remember you as the young man who heralded the spring of youth in my life.
I miss you, my strongest tempest.
And now I cry over the choice you and I made, in the hopes that this decision will leave us to retain the rest of routine lives in relative normalcy.
To fight for love would wreak havoc on the ones who love us.
It is love, in all its hidden strength, that gives you the strength to let go.
Not that our love was weak. We simply and perhaps mutually had cared more for another than ourselves. Because trust me, as you would have, had I been yours for this life, it does cross my mind- the benefits of being selfish and following my selfish little heart.
This phase will pass, in which, every song I hear sounds tragic, each word directed at the extent of what I have lost. Even the flowers in the rain leave me bereft and grieving. For walking in the rain only serves to remind me of the short, deliberately slow walks that I took by your side, when the slightest brush of your arm against mine triggered a scarlet blush and a wild heart. The rain now asks me for contribution, as tears, like the payment for the happiness that was mine. Perhaps, if I cry every time it rained, it wouldn't be payment enough. That's how glad, how happy, I am for that moment to have occurred.
Even the curls of my hair remind me of you, they framed my vision when I looked your way. and though my vision remains the same, you are not in it....
Even when I was falling through practicality and responsibility to love you, I had dared not dream, in fear of them not coming true. So why do I dream of you and I in a parallel universe, living the life, I wanted?
Why does every moment that I spent with you feel like parts of life stolen from another lifetime altogether?
Why does it hurt me to not remember the feel of your face under my hands?
Why do you still remain in my mind like questions? Has he had food? Is he resting enough? Has he lost weight? Is the weather too hot for him? Does he have a cold? Did someone upset him?
Is he hurting like I am?
The feeling of these moments stored in my heart, buried, not in a grave, but in a live beating heart that wished it could return to you, stab me with every beat.
But such joys are not mine to claim, no matter how many nights I sit by the window waiting for it to stop torturing me with thoughts of you, or turn away from songs that remind me of you.
Memories so painful yet the most beautiful and certainly the best kept. Like a line from a love song, that stays in you forever, but seldom makes it to your lips.
Never doubt that it was love, for it took me long to stop trying to not love you.
And if love means letting go, seeing you happy, then yes, you were loved deeply and as you once said, will be loved, 'in the most silent of ways'.... not just till my heart withers away to nothingness, but till time lasts.
Regret me not,
X
