There must be a reason for my masochism, because each and every one of them left me broken, shattered into pieces that I could hardly recognize as parts of me.
Adamantly, I denied my failures, labeling them all as ‘Experimental Errors’ and
dragged my heart behind me as I trudged along the same path, over and over again.
But maybe you should know that when I first heard your name, I doubted both your existence and my sanity.
Being obsessed with ‘truths’ and ‘proofs’ I asked you to simply Speak to me.
I wanted to spill your voice into my coffee and onto my white shirt (ever so plain) every day, every morning.
This made sense to a cynic like me
and I subscribed wholeheartedly to a handful of ifs and thens :
If I could taste you, then I could savor every stage up until that nanosecond, where I can’t separate your bitter-sweetness from my tongue’s numbness
if I could hold you, then I could plunge deep into the holiness of your majestic kingdom (the one you so admirably protect)
if I met you, then I could forgive the Universe’s way of teasing me, taunting me with figments and fragments of you.
And when I do taste you, I fear that I will leave your veins dried out as I drink from those holy waters (because I am selfish, you see, and I must resurrect the fire that used to be me)
and when I do hold you, I fear for your fragile bones in my savage hands, as I possibly fracture them once or twice to fit across our new-found land (yes, our)
and when I do meet you, I fear for your lifelong incarceration in my chambers.
But really, mostly – I fear fearing you, and my complete and utter paralysis in your presence.