I’ll mourn you since I was fond of you more than I would love to admit. And my mind, like the tea in my mug, won’t remember that you were here.
In loving memory of the lips I never got to kiss, the eyes that never brought tears to mine, the meetings in the dark we never had and the glass smooth fingers that never clung to mine in a subtle fit of something near love, something nearing a platonic intimacy, I shall not, my dear love, mourn you in a bar. I shall not drink a beer and say, in slurred fits of intoxication, ‘bollocks!’
I shall mourn you in sobriety. With a mug of sugarless tea in my palm, a Garcia novella in my company and I shall say, as he wrote, that ‘there is always something left to love’ and I shall drink my tea.
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I’ve lost something that wasn’t even mine. Something hope told me could be mine. Because hope, I read, is a good thing, and good things don’t die I gave in to hope. Let her cage me in a cell of illusion, made comfortable by your recent, shifty likeness of my person.
I think you should have stayed. I think you love the petals in a man. and I have no petals. I’m no longer your linguist, my grammar is shit, my writing slender and cobwebs, roaches and spiders litter my brain. I’m not as sharp. In few towering ways, I live in fear of living. I think you should have stayed, loved my thorns. For if you loved my thorns, even liked them, you would have loved me wholly. And perhaps I would have been the man you want.
But what do I know? Perhaps you have been a pinch of sugar in my ocean. Perhaps I have been a pinch of salt in the ocean you are. I think I have loved you with my mind, and parts of my heart, the cold parts. I’m glad I didn’t love you with my soul. For my mind forgets, my heart will stop and my soul will always wander. And it better wander without the unrequited need of you. So, I’ll mourn you in sobriety.
The tea in my mug is receding. Leaving. As you left. And as you have now. So, I’ll mourn you with my cigarette. At least, she has been around. She has been with me when I thought I’d had too much of living to hang on. She has been with me at three am, when all is quiet, when the mosquitoes are asleep and all I hear is the rioting of my emotions, lone, angered and wounded. With each puff, I’ll mourn you. Your laugh, the glass in it. I’ll mourn you with her. And perhaps one time, when I find laughter in the thought of your embrace, she’ll tell you, ‘fuck! I’m jealous of you. He used me, puffing my goodness, thinking of you…’
There’s so much to mourn. So much to let out and much to say. So much about the future I built for us to mourn for. Thus, I’ll mourn you in silence. In sobriety. For I have buried you in wreaths of ceaseless roses; you are red. See, I have admired you. Admired you. Respected you. Loved you even when love to me, is three am, clarity. Meaning. Calmness. And nothing before or past it.
My mug of tea is empty. I’ve emptied you off my mind. Of your scent. Of portraits of you hanged on its wall. And of the steps you took, we took on my mind’s pathways, emptied you off the seats you sat on in my mind. And my mind, like the tea in my mug, won’t remember that you were here. But my heart will remember and it will stop. My cigarettes want to meet you and chat. My soul says, ‘good gracious, rest in peace’.
This week’s post was done by Osanya Mahanda. Enjoyed it? Let us know in the comments section. And maybe share? Your call.