When I think of you, a plethora of images come bursting inside my head. They come in torrents, in hurricanes, that if I will not come into my senses it will swallow me whole. They are images I used to hate, but I have learned to nurse them, own them, those images you have playfully portrayed. And in time, I came to love them. I came to accept that beneath the exterior I have known from afar, lies vulnerability, innocence, and mistakes.
I cannot fathom how you manage to throw my words into thin air, how you burn your promises and comfort me with its ashes and still, I stay. I will always remember the night that you chose not to choose me and still, I chose to wait and sit, sit, sit. I sit in the cold, cemented bench while I try to make something out of your gestures, out of your words. Your absence told me to abandon everything, but your hands, those hands who have held me so gently when I’m frail, told me otherwise.
I tried to color ourselves brightly, thinking that the shades I charmingly borrowed will cling onto us, seeped through us, but they did not. Our times of happiness were becoming often short-lived, and we forced to remember them, to make more memories out of them. Now I decide to scrape everything and paint us with unfeigned colors: of moroseness, of fear, and of love. And adding a stroke of hope and forgetting the ashes, I embrace us. The true us.
Hold my hand once again.