You and I.
I wish I could eliminate this combination, so that the only thing left to gawk at would be an endless series of memories of two shapes. Blurred by the ‘passion’ they seem to revere so much. A mass of shapes and sounds and feelings, unfettered by these personalities we seem to cherish so much.
Why do we like people? For what joy?
When my sudden quirks are called cute by you and when my body fits into yours, and when I say one thing and you say another and they make one complete whole. And six months after that you are a stranger and I would rather not take your name.
Or when you are a dream come true, and I cannot believe my luck, and my breathe refuses to come, because it is bated with the sense of impending disaster. When I like you so very much and cannot fathom why you would reciprocate my feelings. I cannot believe my luck, ergo, my luck will turn.
Or when you are a knight and I dress you up in shiny armour, waiting forever for you to come rescue me, when I know you are off fighting some other war already.
When I decide that I would spend my life with you and you turn out to be one of those charming illusions, and my tears wash out the magic and there is nothing left. How soon everything turns to nothing!
Why do I like you? Why did I like you?
The only thing constant here is me.
You, in all your loving glory are a changeable person, or people.
And now when I think I about it, about you and I, all there is to see is shapes with no end. An endless list of my heartbreaks and so many yous.
We are not people anymore. With my reluctance to see deeper, and yours to try harder. We are have-beens.
Let us talk of happier things, because I am not a part of that combination now.
To quote Nabokov, I have learnt to kiss with “more mouth than meaning.”