It could have been so beautiful.
The way I was too young for my age to run away
but still did
because memories killed me like flashbacks,
shot straight in the dark
every night I passed that spot
on that street
like that night,
remembered so god damn well.
and it was disgusting and ugly,
his hands where they just should have not
been
but still,
it could have been so beautiful,
because it made me who I am.
Makes me who I am.
It could have been so beautiful.
The way our elbows always collide and not a single word was needed to make each other laugh. I laughed at your existence, I said, and you laughed even harder and that’s how we spent our time.
It could have been so beautiful,
the way the first hit felt good and something to deserve
because I’ve read every psychology book you can find on human behaviour and know for a fact that anger grows from caring
too much
and so it was a privilege to be in the war zone with someone like you.
How much you must have cared to hit that well
and that hard
and I remember saying thank you
and I’m sorry
at the same time
because what else is there to say.
It could have been so beautiful.
The way I learned and got free and swore to never love another person
ever again
and it could have been so beautiful
the way I actually did.
But winter came too soon
and I grew smaller and we grew colder
and “I love you” got thrown around like habits
too rooted to give a damn
and it took a year
they say
for me to rid myself from habits rooted too deeply
and well
and still:
it could have been so beautiful.
There was a flower a found in the church after my grand mother’s funeral
this time
last year
and I took and kept it
like a treasure hidden well.
I did not know why I stole it
and why I saw it or meant to keep it
but so I did
and now it’s August and I find myself sitting in a foreign land
again
drunk from too many thoughts and dreams
and memories hidden well
and there are certain moments when I can slowly work it out together.
Like dot to dot, tracing patterns on a map,
and it all makes sense but still absolutely not
because things could have been so beautiful
but just ended up being
not
but still
they are,
because listen:
I am young and lost and know nothing about pain or love or anything in between
but what I do know is that I’ve seen things
I don’t wish for others to see,
and I’ve felt things
I don’t wish for others to feel,
and still I sit alive in a foreign city
thinking about someone,
wishing that the someone was here
and if there’s anything others have taught me it is that I don’t need them to make myself feel okay
but still I think of him
and his hands
and how he says my name
and that’s all I need
to know that
I will be okay, after all.
I will be okay, in spite of it all.
See, ugliness is a fact
but beauty is a virtue
and I’ve seen it.
I see it
and know it
and will try to keep it
treasured like a secret at the bottom of the sea,
bottled up not to be taken for granted,
like
his hand in mine.
like his hand
in mine.
In spite of it all,
I am okay.
// from my book Another Vagabond Lost To Love
Read more about the book here >>>
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