On The Day of The Dead
On November 2, it had already been four months since you left me in the dark. It's wrong for me to allow this feeling to overtake reason. Moreso, to allow you to have any impact on my being at all.
It's over, and accepting that you never truly loved me had long been a pending task in my overdue to-do list. Concrete steps already taken to forget you included telling myself repeatedly: I am never your choice. Never your dream.
But it hurts so bad to think that you've been selfish. I shared in that selfishness to an extent, yes. But then again, you choose for whom making mistakes will be worth it. You said you loved me then dropped it like hot potato. My courage to follow you and stand for what we felt hit against the wall: a sturdy wall that only the world's best architect could ever build. Someone who could reinvent spaces, making me believe there is something out of nothing.
When we were still the best of friends, I supported your decisions though you seemed unhappy. I encouraged you to take risks and pursue happiness, though it wasn't me. You called when you were sad, and I didn't mind the hours passing, listening to your heart which at that moment expressed what it failed to tell her. Because you did the same for me: When life got tough, you popped out of nowhere and listened. You seemed to have the most sincere "how are you?," coming from someone who genuinely cared. Then one day, you had the sweetest gesture that made me drop my defenses. You seemed to be your truest.
Now it's hard to say what I used to tell you: I wish for your happiness. Because once in our lives I believed that for a few days of showing you love, one that may be rare, perhaps, you could have been truly happy with me. Unfortunately couldn't.
I feel sorry for myself. For you. For us.
It's over, and accepting that you never truly loved me had long been a pending task in my overdue to-do list. Concrete steps already taken to forget you included telling myself repeatedly: I am never your choice. Never your dream.
But it hurts so bad to think that you've been selfish. I shared in that selfishness to an extent, yes. But then again, you choose for whom making mistakes will be worth it. You said you loved me then dropped it like hot potato. My courage to follow you and stand for what we felt hit against the wall: a sturdy wall that only the world's best architect could ever build. Someone who could reinvent spaces, making me believe there is something out of nothing.
When we were still the best of friends, I supported your decisions though you seemed unhappy. I encouraged you to take risks and pursue happiness, though it wasn't me. You called when you were sad, and I didn't mind the hours passing, listening to your heart which at that moment expressed what it failed to tell her. Because you did the same for me: When life got tough, you popped out of nowhere and listened. You seemed to have the most sincere "how are you?," coming from someone who genuinely cared. Then one day, you had the sweetest gesture that made me drop my defenses. You seemed to be your truest.
Now it's hard to say what I used to tell you: I wish for your happiness. Because once in our lives I believed that for a few days of showing you love, one that may be rare, perhaps, you could have been truly happy with me. Unfortunately couldn't.
I feel sorry for myself. For you. For us.
