Recounting Her

With her, the monstrous passion grew to wild proportions. I am not sure if this is because the monster has gotten too big at this point to move out of her, or if she can actually sustain the beast that is my attraction. Every bit of her self enslaved my sensibilities. The way her body surrendered itself when I hugged her churned the deepest parts of my soul. The unattractive way her hip connects to her legs makes my heart sink, as it is a taste of her weakness in an otherwise perfect embodiment of my affection.

I adored the way the soft skin of her fingertips danced in my hand. I loved wrapping my fingers around that skin and in doing so, sustaining a sting of what it would be like to hold her soul along with her body. This attraction is not sexual, or maybe it is beyond it. In this way, the pure capturing of her spirit, the true priceless goal that I am after, will sit at the forefront of every encounter with her, despite the creeping of a scandalous smile on the right side of her mouth when she sees me looking into her eyes.

I miss the lights on the Italian streets that fell upon our flirtatious teasings, like orange ghosts whispering to me that looking into her eyes is a dream. A dream that would vaporize soon with agonizing wrath. These ghosts also come to me in images of her smile, reminding me that I am a prisoner in her absence. That I cannot know happiness until I have taken her love unto myself.

Now that the dream is ending, the storm of her will only be relived in the crevasses of my mind, inspired by a memory of a song, a smell. In this resurrection of her, there will be pain to no end. I taste this pain now, as I struggle to write this paragraph, with her sleeping gently, gently somewhere away from me. I see this pain as the pangs of nostalgia of her smooth skin rubbing on mine already parade their ways into the core of my self. As if I am nostalgic of a time and that I am currently in.

I write this to you in pain previously unknown to me. I write this in shame that I am feeling nostalgia for the present time. And that this is a hallmark of my failure to use my own confidence to know that reality is never as it is unless I think it is. That I have already discounted my own success. Perhaps she exists in a realm that cannot be breached by my confidence. It’s as if the darkness of her eyes pierce my resolve more effectively than anything before. 

The subtle turbulence of the flight to Prague shakes us now. It is a crucible of my secrets, my emotions, my soul, my fears, my enchantment, my spirit, all that has happened in the last week. The crucible is shaking worrisomely. And inside it, there is me and there is her. As the plane descends, the jarring taste of reality comes to me in flashes of my home, college, my life, which are all currently unfulfilling. And I look back to her bobbing head, with her hat cutely covering her face, and on her face, the unnatural-looking makeup concealing the imperfections that I would give anything to drink up and take upon myself. The plane hits the ground violently and wakes her up in a fright. I see her look at me in fear, almost looking for guidance, but I know she wasn’t. I keep a stern face, backed only by an immeasurable fear that I have just passed up the chance to make her fall in love with me.

I write this to you as a preface of my feelings. My narrative has 1.5 more months in it, and in these months, I may make decisions that I never thought possible, or I may remain in my prison. I want you to absorb the depth of my feelings for her, so that they are clear when I inform you of the resolution. I write to you in trust and with subtle affection. You yourself have a place in my narrative that, if mentioned now, would be in poor taste and detract from the objective of this letter. But be intimately aware of that fact nonetheless.

Be well

To the subject: if you have somehow made it here, please be assured that this no longer for you. Sorry to be so fickle!