How can I explain this to you? How can I make you feel what I feel? How can I make the sunshine over your arms, the way I intend the universe to behave, in a perfect setting, so I may make you feel with my explanations the utter desire and longing of being with her.
And then be humiliated by her.
She put pen to words. She conceived them through him. Me. Even if she hated them. Sometimes.
To be burnt with a matchstick. Sometimes, a paper. Sometimes, a short story. And sometimes, a novella.
Even then, worth it.
Do you know you won’t be able to read those pieces. Never. They are not even ashes anymore. They don’t exist. The magnum opus – gone.
But once, they did. And they made a hell of a play. A smile and a tear. A longing in her eyes. For the writer – though the writer was nothing but a source. She did all the wonders. She conceived. Through him. chapter by chapter.
How can I explain this to you? How can I make you feel what I feel?
I’ve seen her naked. I’ve seen her soul. I’ve seen her desires. I’ve seen her darkness. Her wounds. Her stretchmarks. Her perfectly imperfect formations. Her scent and smell. Her taste. Scars. Light. Darkness. Everything.
I’ve seen her naked. Right in front of me. Not in darkness, but in light. Not in light, but in darkness.
How can I snap and swap to make you feel the rhythm divine?
Of course, I miss her. But do I want to be with her? No.
I just want to miss her.
And keep on missing her.
So, the wounds may never heal.
Because healing is widely exaggerated. It’s pain, separation, and divorce, that matter. Not otherwise.
Maybe someday. In another world. When we are both not entirely messed up before making an insane point of chaos.
