“I loved you when you couldn’t love yourself...”
he whispered faintly to the flickering flame of a candle, and there’s a notion of rebirth when I ponder the way he pressed his lips upon mine while our hips crushed against each other in a subtle but needy rolling motion, and I couldn’t help but sigh at the unspoken words that remained fermenting, some decades later.
The memory of one’s touch remains seared upon the memory and we can’t undo what’s been done, and there’s no fun in pining for a love that can never come to fruition when both parties are too stubborn to compromise, entirely content with their own company yet the body aches to be entwined.
The things I’ve lost are rarely fructified but they're never rustic, when measured upon the spectrum of right or wrong as they were never broken, just suspended upon the cusp of time when probability emerges as time unfolded.
Memories, never suffer indignity as we do when we're stuck in rumination, whilst pondering the possibility of inevitability of sequential moments to ascertain why apathy knocked upon our door until the fractures became more apparent.
And the absence of his touch lingers on the peripheral of my thoughts as I find ways to temper the storm that rages in my heart & soul as the effervescent memory of his soft heart wraps me tightly, nestled closely to the pondering of an everlasting bond that enables our rebirth.