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Embers and Ink
7 months ago · · Relationships
How hard is it to know that every single love letter or paper that I give you even signed with my name must be burned in an unholy flame.
How much ache does it take for you to scrub off a lip print on your cheek with acidic soap to make sure no one else could even know it was there.
How every hug needs to be done where the area has been cleared from surveillance cameras and people as if we were running from the government, but only isolated ourselves in a place guarded like Area 51.
I want to plant kisses all over your lovely face and watch them sprout into bundles of love and joy.
I want to embrace you and fill your heart with warm, fuzzy feelings.
I crave to interlace my hands like ribbons that ten thousand boy scouts would have to untie to keep me away from you.
I want to take you to see what the world looks like when I am with you, beautiful sunsets with long walks while we share food and drinks. I want to give you the world.
But I can’t give you the world, or else your family will come in and find it, and rip it from your hands and shrivel it all into tiny pieces of ash and embers.
Why did it have to be our love story, out of all cliches to mimic, was the famous rhetoric of the star-crossed lovers destined to meet their end.
I never understood, until now, what loving someone in such a burning passion with the ground beneath you quaking and ready to burst.
Loving you was a safe space, but knowing the outside world was anticipating the brutal end, beating against the doors and smashing the windows and tearing down walls.
But know this first, love.
I don’t care if I get beat down by a battalion of armies or goats funded with cheese and gold to kill me before the two of us split.
But if you, in the slightest, doubt what we had is not even worth a single argument, I will gladly step down to watch you live a life of happiness and love from a distance.
I wish I was the man that your grandparents wanted you to marry.
I wish that I was the man that never interfered with any of your brain activities, and you were alive and well. You did not have an ounce of stress on your head.
I wish I was the man that asked you out on a date before outside factors came and ruined what we had.
But the problem of it all, was that you loved me, not similar to them, and that I was not a man that your grandparents loved, but instead I was a woman that your grandparents despised even the slightest idea of my existence.
Yet every time I seem to see you, all of this stress rises to the top of your head and pipes out of your ears. It’s my doing even though everyone says otherwise.
You tell me none of it is my fault, you say it never is, but I keep on feeling otherwise. You walk past me while stressing over what others think about you and me. Yet you still come back to spend time with me.
I keep on holding on to this important question that never comes out when I need it most, because I will always put you before me.
Do you love me in a way that all the risk is worth it?
How much would you give for a kiss?
How much berating would you endure for the promise of never ending moments where we could be together again?
If any of this does not even click, are you here for pity for me?
Do you love me?
Because I still cannot understand the concept of loving something so ugly and useless while being so stressful with it. I cannot understand why anyone would even sacrifice a sliver of their time to be with me. How anyone could ever love me. Even while happy, I wonder if you love me in the way that I see you as a radiating goddess. Do you view me as something even remotely similar? Or, a creature to pity on. In these cases, I always get the second option. A hopeless creature at the verge of ending it all, ending in its own fiery doom I always believed to be alone.
Yet I see you.
And I burn with love for you, and I never want to let it go. I will keep on giving you letters, little anecdotes you’ll keep in a shoebox and one day will have to burn to destroy any remote type of evidence. But I will keep on going with this never ending cycle of fire and ash, hoping one day that you keep all that we survived through, looking back at it while we sit in our own real safe space, with no one trying to break in with bats and crowbars. Just us, sitting, hugging, kissing, interlacing hands, and loving each other freely, with no ultimatums, no consequences. The only fire we would ever need by then was the fire of love we keep steadily lit.