Driven by my inherent incapacity to possess, I missed all the simple (and beautiful) things I had, I yearned for you to be a precise and fleeting blaze; on the fringes of my vision, I lost touch with the magic I had reserved for myself. Amidst the echoes of your laughter, I discovered small nuances of vanity and lack. Gradually, I found myself surrendering to a less idealized notion, distancing from the feeling I had convinced myself I possessed. As always, I ended up wrestling with the almanack of expectations I had for you... and suddenly, like a flock of birds, came that ungrateful desire! It insisted that you be everything she had been to me. I began to wish that your scent would be hers, that your laughter would shatter like the waves in the sea, breaking forth ancient memories of more futile pasts.
I remembered that park and sought to recreate even the moon that had illuminated the desolation. I caught myself asking the same questions I had asked before, attempting to compel destiny to repeat what I never wanted to let go of. The answers were different, the moon was not the same, and there I remained, frozen in a time to which I did not belong. A time in which I hadn't even decided whether it was you or her. I lived second-hand emotions that tethered me to an illusion I could never truly recognize. In this pursuit, I lost your gaze, as well as a dozen more, always hoping the reflection would transport me to a bygone era that had faded and torn souls, leaving them in that unwitting sorrow that arises from an inability to shed tears. Perhaps I lacked the hope to forget and let go. I could never even ponder why you left. I should have concluded that it was I who chose to depart, and in my desire to experience it uncomplicated, I created a reality that suited me. One where guilt burdens everyone while granting me the breath of my own making. One in which I cast as a victim the one who left you in the void.
And desire turned into time. Time became a place from which I had lost my way. Weary, I roamed among sonnets and symphonies, yearning for a sign of your voice. With the rain, I sought the sensations that would lead me to your scent. Deranged, I discovered that fragrance wasn't mine; it was yours, and not even a thousand storms could bring it back to me. I fell into silence, clumsiness condemned me, and in the haste of that feeling I could never bury, my words lost their names, my sentences their verbs, and there were no periods or ellipses. Just a cyclical route of love too similar to something I had no interest in feeling. You weren't the enchantress, nor Leonora, nor was I anything more than who I once was. Nevertheless, storms must come to an end, without rainbows or spring honey, without celebrations and muffins, just time navigating the tide's path, without a keel and quarter, surviving that unsettling spasm of familiar anxiety. Do you remember what I am? Will you at least let me survive in the memory of who I once was?