Sep 2020
“Good morning, love,” you whisper.
It has always been the sweetest sound I always hear before I formally open my eyes for the new morning. I could not imagine, waking up one day not to hear your voice beside me. It is like a melody of hope and love that even my imperfect days become brighter and sunnier. A chilly morning always lulls me with your mint breath that puffs like a cloud of smoke in my face every day.
How I could forget, the way you undress me with my favorite red Elmo shirt and teases me for my unsymmetrical body. I hate it when you laugh at me, comparing me to the human body systems you have studied in your Science class. I hate myself being half-naked and shivers in front of you but you always pull me in your chest and incubate me like a baby. That makes me feel safe and enough.
Your fingers then begin to wander around my body starting from my head down to the end like a thin map, locating the bones you have not known. You have memorized the number of ribs, the hiding-place of my moles, the width of my waist, the length of my thighs, and the weight of my brain when I lose myself in the fantasy you make. I know you will kiss me after that. A warm, obsessive kiss as if I belong to you. Like I am only made for you. You own every little thing about me as you sealed every edge of my body with your lips and hands.
In this room, you always play your favorite Taylor Swift’s song on your phone and sing it to me foolishly, in out of tune while looking me in the eye. You would ask me to sing it with you the best line of the song: you are the best thing that’s ever been mine. This makes me laugh, blush, and even makes me cry in such unfathomable bliss I feel every time we do this. I forget the things that make me scared and worry. I want to hold you forever like what you did whenever I fall head over heels for you.
You are not actually my type. I never dreamt of loving the exact opposite of me. You hate the smells of books and will never pull me in a bookstore just to read George Orwell’s or Harper Lee’s. You have never been to art galleries or even museums to look for paintings and sculptures. Mostly, you never read my paper-scented poems and short stories peppered with similes and metaphors. Those things make you fall asleep. But, you always show up and try to understand my world.
Our story is nothing but a cliché.
Sometimes, we both sail through the angriest storms that left us unguarded. There were days that our rooms were jam-packed with simple misunderstandings that ended up with spicy arguments. Those nights, when we sleep against our backs with wet pillows and separate blankets. We fixed things, though, before the sunlight peeks through our curtains. We entwined our hands again. New and fresh like there is no scar at all. In the next months it’s been always benn the same. We usually run in circles – a cycle that we never break.
The room succumbed into the silence that was once smeared with laughter and dreams. The heavy tension surrounding us, expanding more each day. From our bed to tables. The distance between our hearts stretched to a distance beyond our reach. I do not recognize you anymore as you have metamorphosed into another being. A different stranger.
As much as I want to save you from drowning, you were already trapped in whirlpools. I firmly hold the thin string of hope to battle it out against the current. I pulled myself together and swam harder, as fast as I can do. I can already feel fatigued. Without a word, you unlatched your hand and let yourself adrift farther away from me.
I was lost. I traveled all alone in the cold sea, looking at the sky. That made me realized that I was already defeated in this battle before it had started.
____________
My head spins like hell. All things are blurry and indistinct. I am staring at my phone waiting for a text message to pop up. I notice the dried red rose on the vase. The books on my shelf are dismantled and seem like some are missing or misplaced. The printed shirts and my pants are scattered on the dusty carpet. I caress my much-loved red Elmo shirt as if I am searching for a lost memory. I drink the last glass of beer, staring blankly at my phone.
Funny how all these stuff occupy every space in my room yet it still feels so empty without you in it. I forced myself to stand on the floor and decided to open another bottle of beer.
“Good morning, my love,” I regretfully whisper to your absence.
It has always been the sweetest sound I always hear before I formally open my eyes for the new morning. I could not imagine, waking up one day not to hear your voice beside me. It is like a melody of hope and love that even my imperfect days become brighter and sunnier. A chilly morning always lulls me with your mint breath that puffs like a cloud of smoke in my face every day.
How I could forget, the way you undress me with my favorite red Elmo shirt and teases me for my unsymmetrical body. I hate it when you laugh at me, comparing me to the human body systems you have studied in your Science class. I hate myself being half-naked and shivers in front of you but you always pull me in your chest and incubate me like a baby. That makes me feel safe and enough.
Your fingers then begin to wander around my body starting from my head down to the end like a thin map, locating the bones you have not known. You have memorized the number of ribs, the hiding-place of my moles, the width of my waist, the length of my thighs, and the weight of my brain when I lose myself in the fantasy you make. I know you will kiss me after that. A warm, obsessive kiss as if I belong to you. Like I am only made for you. You own every little thing about me as you sealed every edge of my body with your lips and hands.
In this room, you always play your favorite Taylor Swift’s song on your phone and sing it to me foolishly, in out of tune while looking me in the eye. You would ask me to sing it with you the best line of the song: you are the best thing that’s ever been mine. This makes me laugh, blush, and even makes me cry in such unfathomable bliss I feel every time we do this. I forget the things that make me scared and worry. I want to hold you forever like what you did whenever I fall head over heels for you.
You are not actually my type. I never dreamt of loving the exact opposite of me. You hate the smells of books and will never pull me in a bookstore just to read George Orwell’s or Harper Lee’s. You have never been to art galleries or even museums to look for paintings and sculptures. Mostly, you never read my paper-scented poems and short stories peppered with similes and metaphors. Those things make you fall asleep. But, you always show up and try to understand my world.
Our story is nothing but a cliché.
Sometimes, we both sail through the angriest storms that left us unguarded. There were days that our rooms were jam-packed with simple misunderstandings that ended up with spicy arguments. Those nights, when we sleep against our backs with wet pillows and separate blankets. We fixed things, though, before the sunlight peeks through our curtains. We entwined our hands again. New and fresh like there is no scar at all. In the next months it’s been always benn the same. We usually run in circles – a cycle that we never break.
The room succumbed into the silence that was once smeared with laughter and dreams. The heavy tension surrounding us, expanding more each day. From our bed to tables. The distance between our hearts stretched to a distance beyond our reach. I do not recognize you anymore as you have metamorphosed into another being. A different stranger.
As much as I want to save you from drowning, you were already trapped in whirlpools. I firmly hold the thin string of hope to battle it out against the current. I pulled myself together and swam harder, as fast as I can do. I can already feel fatigued. Without a word, you unlatched your hand and let yourself adrift farther away from me.
I was lost. I traveled all alone in the cold sea, looking at the sky. That made me realized that I was already defeated in this battle before it had started.
____________
My head spins like hell. All things are blurry and indistinct. I am staring at my phone waiting for a text message to pop up. I notice the dried red rose on the vase. The books on my shelf are dismantled and seem like some are missing or misplaced. The printed shirts and my pants are scattered on the dusty carpet. I caress my much-loved red Elmo shirt as if I am searching for a lost memory. I drink the last glass of beer, staring blankly at my phone.
Funny how all these stuff occupy every space in my room yet it still feels so empty without you in it. I forced myself to stand on the floor and decided to open another bottle of beer.
“Good morning, my love,” I regretfully whisper to your absence.
