— an anecdote of potpourris.
Tried My Best
But when will I finally let go?
I often find her sleeping so soundly on the floor, with nothing but her usual shell-pink blanket and her arm neatly wrapped as her pillow. Her sun-streaked, satiny flock would graciously flood her surroundings, but she had accidentally created waves of paper scattered across the carpet. She looked incredibly peaceful amongst that mess.
She knew that she needed to fill all of that paperwork by morning, but she couldn’t help it. Her eyes had no more strength to see or be seen by absolutely anyone or anything. They crave deep rest, even if it’s only for a while. If only I could kiss them as they close.
She was the type of person that leaves clothes on her bed in such a perfect mess. I used to clean them for her. But after a while, it drove her nuts. She loves jumping into the pile. “A leap of opulent feel,” she would often say. Indeed, she has her way with words.
I often think about meeting her all over again. I’d find myself dwelling on the possibilities our conversation would reach, knowing what we’ve uncovered about each other, or meeting one another again as strangers. Will I kiss her right away — adhering to my deadly impulses, or wait for exactly four dinner dates to tame a conservative damsel such as herself?
I had no idea how, but my guards were lowered in a trice as if I never had any in the first place. Her cosmic-cerulean eyes made sure I would lay mine on hers forever while her lips rained countless vows that seemed unbreakable. She was the only certainty I could ever hold on to, even when my skies revolt against the ground on which I stand.
Indeed back then, I was stifled and subdued under her abusively tender-hearted disposition. Lord have mercy, even I often envisioned how our holy union would commence.
I loved the thought of settling with a kiss under the red oak of her childhood days. We thought of laying parquet flooring just right before the hills, too small to build a house yet grand enough for hours-worth of a waltz. We agreed on nearly everything, particularly to disagree on red velvet fillings underneath that two-tiered, ivory icing cake.
She succumbed to the idea of situating all the details she could think of straight to our endless discussion. Quite frankly, this would involve comprising a list of honorable guests we’d include on our day. She would babble on and on without letting the seconds which fall to catch the first light of day stop her. And I would be there, perpetually listening to her still.
Until now, her voice lingers around my head while her fingers intertwine with someone else.
Her list and plans remained untouched, spreading their length across her desk.
Her enticing fragrance stained her unmade bed and would occasionally toy with whatever’s left of what I am. Even after all this time, she still has me wrapped in the slowly-receding-waves of her caress.
My only regret was not preparing myself to see her embrace him with such ease, even if I know I was never his match. After all, he’s the most serene explication to her never-ending problems.
And he’s called Death.
So indeed, here is where I will remain, savoring the littlest scraps of what’s left of her traces. You’ll find me sleeping in front of her door, merely to dream about her greeting me. You’ll find me arranging and disbanding her unfinished worksheets, only to imagine they will be neat in the morning.
I’ll do anything only to feel her close, but I will not lay a finger upon her bed.
I’ll play the playlist I often find her asleep to at night; on a loop if I must. I’ll let her ocean-aromatic candles bathe her room, for it is the only scent of hers that hasn’t yet diminished. I’ll let my tears dilute whatever sadness she left behind, for I will not remember her that way.
I’ll retrace her fading existence day by day, but I will not make her bed.
For how she left her sheets,
and how it unknowingly formed
fragments of her figure will feel
as if she never left.
