I Knew, Did You?

I knew I would love you before I knew you: you, with your tired brown eyes and your nondescript mouth; you, with all your meek kindness and invisibility; you, with your unawareness and complacency.


I knew I was going to court your unimportance before you even set eyes upon me, before you knew who I would be. I knew I would sweep all of your humble, simple love in such a great wave that it would spark and light up brighter than you ever thought you were capable of; I knew I would kiss you insane to draw the magnificent out of you.; you, with your well-worn skin and framed black glasses and your mess of an excuse for hair; you, with the grand sum of your history that was too little, barely there.


And I knew you’d turn me into a museum of splintered memories for years to come.


I knew I was going to lie in your arms and make you see bigger things, wondrous things, things that would take you places you didn’t know existed. I knew I would love all of you, your skin and your smell and your sleep sounds, your tosses and turns, your freckles and your early morning voice. I knew I would love you some nights and abandon you on others; I knew of our courting dance, our future rituals, of you trying and me denying. I knew about your secrets, your fetishes, your deepest, predictable wants and I knew I was going to give it all to you; you, with your silence and apprehensions; you, with your silly ignorance.


I wanted something to fix and there you were.


So I walked up to you and said ‘hello’.


And I think it’s notable how you thought you knew me by how you viewed the light off my skin, the mounts and falls, the textural details, the cracks and crevices, the color, and how it might feel to your touch. I think it’s queer how you thought you understood what my life had been, through your meager vision, my psychology by your interpretation of what my part is like to be played, and how my heart responds and wants; when the reality of me was in my head and heart, the throb and flow of blood and muscle, dreams and fears, my semantic sensibilities that stayed forever mine alone; when what I am is all of my history, my memories, and the faint flutters of my imagination, the loves I’ve loved, the evenings I miss, the books I’ve read, and the characters I’ve played.


But it is curious how to you, that was not important at all.


I wanted you to know me for the things I was not. I wanted you to know me for the things others knew nothing about. I wanted you to know me for a person I thought I could afford to be with you.


The first time you met me, you told me some things lose meaning as soon as we put them into words. Perhaps my love for you was just one of them. So, I smiled and told you I’d always been bad with words.


Instead, I let you see it in my eyes as you leaned in every morning while I kissed you, reaching out with my fingers to muss your hair. I let you hear it from my lips around your ears as the embers burnt themselves out a little after two in the night. I let you read it in the braille of goosebumps on my thighs on autumn nights. I let you divine it from the vapors from every cup of coffee I carefully brewed for you. I let you touch it in by exhales, in the faint dust of nebulae weaving their way across to your inhales. I let you know in the words that I traced on your spine with my fingers, smoothing over bruises and blisters from the past, accepting all, questioning nothing.


I let you know in gestures, that you were the means… and the end.


The last time you met me, you told me some things lose meaning as soon as we put them into words. Perhaps my love for you was just one of them. So till date, I still write about it, in loops, over and over again, hoping (praying) what you said was true.



Image source: pixabay.com



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