he had the loneliness of a god
and i wanted very much to love him.
i loved his hands.
his blue veins, his lithe
fingertips forever stained
purple, pink, and green-
droplets of ink i would trace without thought.
( lately, i find myself hovering over the same spots
on my own hands now- though it's not the same. )
i loved his laugh.
his carefree nature, his spontaneity,
i loved how infectious his happiness could be.
during afternoon car rides,
or late night phone calls.
how i'd say something stupid and quiet and he'd giggle like i'd just told the best joke in the world.
(no one had ever listened to me like that before.)
i loved his freckles. his beauty spots. his unruly brown hair. the slight gap in his front teeth. his tired eyes, the flecks of green. his voice. his touch.
his sighs. his hugs. the way he drank his tea.
though also, i think,
i loved him for selfish reasons.
see, i loved the way his mind worked.
the scribbles of poetry he wrote for me,
the love letters written on rainy days,
the theoretical discussions
over alternate dimensions,
the music and movies-
it was like
peering into a mirror of myself.
it was like
narcissus gazing longingly into a puddle.
it was a silly girl
caught in a lovestruck stupor;
i had finally met the boy of my dreams,
and he was exactly like me.
do i adore you
only as an extension of myself?
i loved him for all the things he came to represent.
i loved him as a fulfillment of what i craved
i loved him i love him and i'm sorry because
i could not love him the way he needed to be loved.
and i think i left him
lonelier than before.
