Whenever I allow myself to think of love, my mind runs to the chambers where secret memories are stored, in sealed chests, on high unreachable shelves, deterring me from opening, dreaded Pandora boxes, stripped of hope.
Yet sometimes the endeavour to reminisce overwhelming feelings I struggle to repress, commands me to climb the stairs, unclose the safes of the unspoken, as I forbid tears from pouring, out of clouded eyes, still loving.
You are there, with your roguish smile, chivalric deportment, statuesque poise, Michelangelo’s David, I compared, giddily gazing at your tragic features as if you were, the one and only whom I could ever love, desire, crave, forgive.
Suddenly though not unexpectedly, intrudes the scolding guardian of remembrances, treating me as an impostor in my own mind, a thief of frames concealed, yelling at me as you used to, reminding me of reality, your swinging lunatic humours, mercilessly lashing me with words.
Scars time will never heal, they lie when they say it will, it has no power over what we were, nor can it erase even the slightest faintest flare of what we felt. Whenever I allow myself to think of love, I still think of you, but that’s the maximum I consent to do.