You, with your sweet words and winsome smile,
ruined me for everyone. I can’t search for love
without seeking for what it was like to be loved
by you: complete, serene, home. Like an entire
universe of my own, and I am not merely an idle
dust floating around in the colossal space we call
a galaxy. Like a person who has fallen in place,
at last, and becoming whole after a lifetime of
being in pieces. Like waking up to the first sip of
coffee on a bright, Sunday morning from a blurry,
bewildered night. Like a fortune teller who is able
to predict the future, except not at all, but it is of
little importance because the main goal is to spend
every living second building moments with you;
the fear of the unknown is absent, and the elixir
of angst in the face of the storm is simply to look
into your trusting eyes. Anything less is not of
account, far from adequate. The moments, sadly,
are now memories, and the future is an abandoned
site of euphoria, an almost-utopia. All the pages of the
blueprint are engraved in my mind in black and white,
and I am unfairly reminded of the images from time to
time—each one a pang of agony. Yet, nevertheless, I am
haunted by the ghost of once-upon-a-time and echoes of
laughter I almost remember. I am dawned by the fact that
perhaps it is not a matter of more, or less, but of who.
It will never be right unless it’s you.