I don’t wish you were here

This piece is a reply to sewn tears’ post.

I don’t wish I was there. I loved but that love ran its course; like a river that reaches its end at the mouth. Now it is in an ocean. I don’t know how many more have poured their love into you. So somewhere in there is mine. I wish I could reach in and grab what’s mine. But it’s impossible. No one river can claim the waters of the ocean. We were done. I know you know we were done. How can I bring myself to look into eyes again? Eyes that were not set in the present or the moment. Eyes that looked into the distant future or maybe the near one. A future without me. Eyes that were empty and aloof like the twirls of lazy cigarette smoke that waved carelessly into the morning as if saying goodbye. How could I do that again?

It hurt. I hurt.

They say love is like a song that only plays in your head. That you’re the only one that can hear it. You and the person you’re in love with. If they love you back. And that, that’s what makes it crazy. You’re in a world of your own. To some the music is soft and slow. And they gravitate towards each other slowly and surely. They gravitate until they collide into each other souls and hearts head on. And they dance. Waltz around life happy with each other. Unaware of the world around. Until the music stops. But arm in arm. Arm to waist. Body to body. They still dance. Their heart beats a steady rhythm. Their breaths harmonic. The music never ends for them.

What was I thinking?

You know what it tastes like? Love. Some say it’s sweet. Like berries that grew from the first waters of the morning dew at the foot of a mountain. Some say it’s red. Red is not a taste. But if you ask they will tell you love is not conventional. That if you want to; if you really have to, you will taste the redness. And they laughed, and held hands; and looked into their lovers eyes and for a few seconds went silent: just before kissing. I didn’t get it. Then I saw her lips. Red. Love tastes red. Beautiful. To some it’s like freshly baked sweet pastries on a Sunday late morning. Like the lazy winds that blow the sticky heat away. It brings a comfort once you taste it. And you think I didn’t want that? I did. I wanted to taste love. I was a fool though. Because I did not nibble, stick my tongue out to test the taste – I took a huge fucking bite.

Stupid.

But the taste. My taste. Your taste. Our love. Was smoky and had hints of oak. It was also spicy and it burnt the tongue and throat. It was  feisty never going down without a fight. Nothing subtle about it. It was like finely aged whisky. That love. Whisky. Finely aged whisky lit on fire. That was exhilarating; more than the reds and the fine sweet pastries could ever imagine. Ours was fire and ice and liquor all in one. It was dangerous. And perfect. Insane. Addictive. The sweet memories they flood me sometimes like a swift wave. Then I surf them enjoying it. I find myself reminiscing. I pour up a glass for all times sake. From that bottle you left. The bottle I never touch. And it fills my mouth with a familiar taste. You. I don’t want to swallow. What will that mean; that you’ll be gone with it? Then I feel like spitting. But I don’t either. The lesser evil is the swallow so I do. Let it burn. Let it churn up more memories.

I miss you. I missed you.

So sit on that window. Light another one. Let the smoke twirl into nothingness. Let it remind of the love. That is. Was. And never will be. And I will sit here. Pour another one. Let it burn. Let the spice fill my mouth. Because I’m getting my wish.

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