We met last November. I fell for you. Pages were written about you but none ever made it through my screen. Those prototypes of poetry were just hitting at the surface of what I felt we were, what I knew of us. « You stole my words », I told you. Truth be told, I hid them away, for fear of seeing beyond the illusion we lived in.
Our love was made of gestures. Quiet moments of bliss and warmth. Your hands were made to touch me, but your heart was not to love me. And I knew. Oh, I knew. Ten days after we met, I wrote about it. Three months later, I was still praying for answers, ignoring I had them all along.
It was your touch. It lit something inside that has been drowned in sorrow and pain for so long. You knew how to listen to my voice, mute and loud, and touch me gently, so gently. I was afraid if I turned my back, I would loose that and never find it again. That was the problem all along, was it ? I spent more time in fear with you than I was in love.
In moments of loneliness, I saw it all, saw the dream, the illusion. And I needed you close, so I could keep that truth away, so you could touch me a little bit longer. I wanted more than your physical affection, yet it’s all I ever came back for.
You reached beyond the barricades of my body but I could never reach beyond the barricades of your heart. I woke up, unable to keep my soul quiet, even in the tender shelter of your arms. We deserved better.
It’s been a few months now. We were not a mistake. There was so much of us in the other, so much to understand. There never was a better place to be together than where we were.
Peace be with you, love, for it is with me.