the language of tragedies

ii. heartbreak

i know him
when he comes to me
with a warm look and open arms,
but i don't know him when he walks away with a low look and lost eyes.

i know him
when he smiles broadly
with flushed cheeks
and slanted eyes,
but i don't know him when he cries inconsolably late at night.

i know his passions,
the photos he keeps on his nightstand,
the books that collect dust on his shelves,
but i don't know his deepest thoughts,
most intimate memories,
the phrases burned in his mind.

i know him
when he wants to have me close
and when he doesn't,
when he loves me
and when he hates me,
but I don't know him
when the thought of me
is lost in a limbo in his intellect.

sometimes i know him
and sometimes I don't.
sometimes i remember him
and sometimes i don't.
i  memorized his attributes
(both physical and metaphysical)
so perfectly
and without realizing
that i could make a blind person
visualize him,
and even fall in love with him.

i memorized his pain and grief,
his love and his joy
as if i could work out a theorem
to get him to give me
what was left of his feelings to consecrate me.

him,
too good for his own good
and very bad for my intentions,
and I,
too bad for myself
and very good for him.
him,
with his green eyes
that meet my reddish ones,
the only thing that's not blurred in my sight
drowned in tears;
in my writings,
ours is the most spectacular of tragedies.

but perhaps
the real tragedy wasn't having memorized
every part of his being
in search of his affection,
but having given him my whole heart
without having understood it before;
having fallen in love with him
without ever
having
known
him.