When my mind becomes clouded by your face, by the way your eyes glow, by the sound of your laugh, by the feeling of your head leaning on my shoulders; my heart does somersaults. It goes to the pit of my stomach then it tumbles back and forth inside my soul. I know it’s dangerous. But instead of running away from the abyss of loving you, I move towards it further. I don’t know why.
Since that day, I often find myself closing my eyes while I lay on my bed. That’s the only time when things in life become clear. What I see is the ravishing images of the things you do to me and of the things I want to do with you. They’re clear – the dropping of my heart, the joy of my soul, the elation I feel whenever we’re together. I don’t think I could ever put them into oblivion. Behind those images is the empty cloth of my life; it’s painted in black. And I know you saw the wholeness of the cloth – the holes from all the bullets that went through it, the patches I put as I tried to make myself whole, the streaks of my nails
when I got so frustrated trying to make the cloth straight. You saw all of it. You stared at it and I was shaking because I knew that you’ll leave. And yet, you never did. You didn’t even try to turn your back just so you could come back. You just stayed there as if there was something pleasing to witness. You stayed and you didn’t have a doubt; I’d know if you had doubts. You didn’t. I love it when people disappoint me. It makes me believe that there’s always more to someone. My shaking stopped and then I stared at you. I’m finally here, at the moment I’ve been longing to live. The moment when I am very certain of what I really want. The moment when I found out that “what” has always meant you. I want to be with you.
I’m glad. Now, I just want to wrap you with all I am. Let go of you for some time then go back to wrapping you. I am afraid I might strangle you so just tell me, I’ll loosen my hold. But I really have no idea about the right way of loving you so yes, I know I’ll make mistakes. Forgive me for loving you in my own terms.
You’re here and the cloth appears again. The images have changed. I don’t see you staring at the cloth. I don’t see myself shaking. I see the both of us. The cloth illuminated. We are sitting together and I’m pointing at the holes as I tell you the story of how she left. You are holding my hand, telling me that it’s gone. The holes became passages of the light. I realized that the cloth didn’t illuminate,