Over the ages, much has been said, in words and deeds, about unrequited love, love that achieves no fulfillment, love that sprouts, is pursued and wooed relentlessly, but is never won. I had never experienced such agony and, thus, had failed to understand the glory, grace or gloom associated with it.
I had read poetry that praised the pangs of disillusionment that unrequited love holds. I had read reams and reams of beautiful, touching prose, exalting love of this kind. And yet I remained anonymous to this feeling, that was at once tender and torturous.
A winter of deep longing, thrill and pleasure later, I know what it all means. I have loved, lost, grieved and now I stand at the juncture that dictates that I look upon my love with a certain sweetness of disengagement. Unrequited love is anguish. Unrequited love is piercing. Unrequited love is also pristine. Unrequited love is charming. There is a strange relief in comprehending that there will no more be the desperation to see him or the distress to feel him. I will not know him anymore. I will never see him smile, dress his hair, chart his plans, eat, walk, sleep, twitch, forget, be casual and indifferent. The unbearable pain of his loss is soothed by the thought that I will never have to wait again.
There is, now, only calm and peace. There is now only happiness that engulfs me, happiness at being free. I am free of him and yet I am not. But I choose when to love him. I do not wait upon him. I no longer crave his hair, his voice, his mouth, his smile. I have let go and in letting go, I have him still in me. Not in bitterness, but only in a state of undefined tranquility. My unrequited love has, today, become strangely fulfilling.