When you are around, I am prone to believe that there is little to the world beyond that tiny space within your hands I am encircled in. There is little to the language but the words of love; the planet within my vision shrinks to only entail the elements and reflections of you in everything.
Your eyes are in the colour of forest, and your face is in my favourite shade of sunlight. There is little to the notion of time, but the motionless Sunday mornings now and then; thereat, there is little to reality but golden-looking dust dancing in geometric beams pouring through the window. There is little to the air, but a dim smell of your skin and hair; likewise, there is little to music, but Einaudi, and little to the concept of sound altogether, but your voice echoing from the walls of that special place my mind has created for you to inhabit.
I was unable to hold you closer – you were standing at the door of my shut heart for months.
It is not the disillusionment that intimidated me; I have accepted that vision and interpretation can barely be universal. It was rather the make-believe concept of time and loneliness that I could not dare to let go of. We dream of meeting our person, to stay with them forever. As appealing and sought-after this sounds, it is barely feasible in an ever-changing setting.
I do not blame transience, or a thousand of possible reasons why one may change their mind. The past and future, rather; what am I, if not the collection of what I am shaped by? I can see silhouettes of your past life, hiding in the depth of your pupils. I can feel the layers of experiences building up one-by-one, covering our naked infant souls. It would be hypocritical to claim that time is static; instead, time is a unity, a whole. Life does not cling onto yesterday, and we do not have the privilege of reviving the past. However, it does live in us – and so do the Sunday mornings with dusty sunbeams.
As truthful as we both are saying the words of love, we do not belong to each other. You can tame the today, tomorrow, a decade, a hundred years.
Yet, when it comes to more distant future – more distant than a young mind can comprehend – your soul will be living in a house of tomorrow, you cannot visit, not even in the dreams. We are like planets whose orbits intersect in a space, ambiguous to us but complex and orderly for the Creator, watching us from the bird’s-eye. We encounter to sparkle and illuminate in the dark, and to carry on with the journey, till we, possibly, meet again in some unknown time and shape.
I will give you my love, while we share a common reality – till our minds travel in different directions. Our lives are little but arrows in the archer’s hand. He aims at some mark on the path of the infinite, and bends the bow with his might. Let the bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness, and your arrow – let it be swift and far.