For You
Sometimes I see you in my dreams, walking past, your face only looking forward. I yearn to see you turn yours towards mine, but you always continue staring away. But when you look at me, I look away. It's the cruel way of love. I feel pain tearing at my heart, biting, gnawing, letting blood drip down from my shattered mind, the very ends of sanity being torn away. Sometimes I pretend I don't care about you anymore, I pretend that I don't need you, after all, you're dead, but denial is every person's worst enemy. Sometimes I wish I could have just confessed, but my very soul, which had been tattered and bruised by every painful incident that has scarred my life told me not to. It is logical not to tell. But love can never be found unless one person makes the first move. This as well is the most painful thing of all, because you are dead, and I can no longer tell you – I can confess openly now, but of course, I can't confess to a dead corpse.
But when you told me you couldn't, and returned it, I felt my very being crack into a thousand pieces. I know you're dead now, but I can't handle it still. Had the fire not burnt down your house, had the arson not been done, had pain not entered my life…
I visit some graves very often, and stand there looking, the pain already washed away. Years of treachery have already turned my heart to stone. That doesn't mean I've become a blind heartless fool, but I just know that I can't turn around the past. That last day I saw you, you were in front of the theater, waiting for a taxi. Taxis may contain evil or good people. I cannot tell. A taxi driver stops for whoever hails them. It is possibly the best disguise. But I believe that the driver of yours was quite the villain. I heard the church bells ring, the birds flitting around, but I felt something wrong, animosity. The world - yours and mine, as we know is filled with evil. Quiet, evil people often can be. Therefore, we don't know who here is evil or good. As I stepped to ring your doorbell, I paused – I knew you'd reject me, but I rang it anyways. But you weren't there, so I left. I wish I hadn't.
That very day, the flames had swallowed your home. I had first felt the phases of regret, longing, and sorrow. But following those days, I realized it would have eventually happen. I may be only a few months older than you – but even then, I would have most likely died before you. So then I had begun to change – I knew that treachery was all over the world and there was no way to put it all out.
I still regret many things. I sometimes visit certain graves on certain evenings every rose I bring always withering away, and sometimes wish I could visit yours too. But you, who died in that blaze, I can only wish, that you were with me.
I still have the rose you first gave me when we met.
Its petals have fallen, dry and dead, but the stem is still fresh like they day I received it. It sits on my desk while I write by lamplight. The accordion still sits in the corner, collecting dust even though I often play it. And the picture of you still sits next to it on a small table.
These, besides my typewriter and hat, are possibly the only things left meaningful to me. Kit has died, Jacques is dead, and it seems as if every noble associate has slowly fallen away. But perhaps there will be a brighter day ahead of us, but me, being the pessimistic one unfortunately, believes otherwise.
I still walk past old headquarters, ruined, burnt down, or changed into foul restraunts, and think of you even then. My heart has been wounded, but it still beats. My mind has been dulled, but I still think. My soul has been shattered, yet I still live. But it is because of you that I have survived. Even the time when I had sat under that table, and dropped that ink cartridge for my empty pen while taking notes. I swore I would have been caught, but somehow luck was with me – I like to think of it as you being with me though.
For Beatrice -
We are like boats passing in the night -
Particularly you.