theblindafterhours

[theblindafterhours]

August 2nd, 4:50 a.m.

I had forgotten how it felt to fall in love with you. After all this time, I’m afraid I still love you. I wish I didn’t. I wish I had stayed oblivious to our old promises, long lost by now. I wish I didn’t remember how much you once loved me. I wish I was unable to relive the time you told me you loved me, and how you wanted to marry me one day. I wish I never found, again, your words of excitement wondering about how would it be to build a life, a family with me. I loved you so much I can, now, feel the void inside of me. The vacant space you left behind when you left me for good. I wish I didn’t find comfort in the fact of not erasing all those words for good. I wish I didn’t miss you like I do. I wish I didn’t still wait for you, against my better judgment. I wish I didn’t wait for you to come back. I wish I didn’t love you anymore.

Please, come back to me. I swear I won’t ruin it this time.

[theblindafterhours]

Dreamt of you on the 28th. Then, you told me you loved me still, while asking me to meet you at the right spot. Heard from you almost two weeks ago, now. The days have gone by like all four seasons. I have no strength in me to wait for news anymore. How did it end? How did we lose it all? How did you go, how could you possibly leave, how did you leave. How didn’t you consider bringing me along with you? There’s no time for aches, for memories or sorrows. This is it, this is the final goodbye. One could believe after so long the cut would’ve been finally cured. One could believe many things these days. Days of change. Days of final words. I go through the days like a ghost, an apparition out for blood, seeking revenge for the death of this, my sacred love. But there’s no more time for questions, for words or heartbreak of any kind. I hope I don’t hear from you again if there’s no love in your voice, or compassion in your heart.

[theblindafterhours]

This is a mausoleum. The mausoleum of our late love. The end of the once-believed, never-ending red thread I wrongly assumed was ours. My hands feel like rusty wires glued together to my wrists in a hurry. I don’t know exactly what to say— nor that I have to say anything. But I want to, for the sake of what we used to be. Used to have. I loved you so much I left a part of me behind with you. I hope I never get it back. You’ll never have yours back, as I buried it.

I buried your words with my contempt. There’s nothing for me to condemn you for anymore. I wouldn’t dare do it. Shed so many tears for you I’m afraid there’s not much of me left. I should leave this the way it is. Buried, abandoned. Lonely. However, from time to time, I see you in the distance like a semi forgotten memory I thought was long gone. It isn’t. Turns out, you never forget what was once your most beloved person. Loved you for who you were, while also hating you for what you weren’t.

We should’ve let it stay buried once it got this horrible. You never get things back to what they once were. But I loved you so much then, it was all just a bundle of trivialities. I would’ve ruined myself for you if you only had asked.

Truth is, I wanted so badly for it to be you. A part of me, I’m afraid, still looks for you in the strangers I meet. Their laughs, their words. It gets incredibly lonely when I notice nobody is quite the same to what I look for. I loathe the search, I despise the results. I’ve grown tired of trying so hard to replicate the feeling I once had with you. Now I know it’s not necessary. Although I loved you immensely, I don’t need you anymore. Once I finally left, this love went onto an eternal lockdown. Won’t be replicated. Am I wrong, am I cruel if I admit I don’t want to experience it again?

Never again.

You will find me again, I’m afraid, in other women. Passing women. Women who stay. Women who laugh, women who read, women who cry. Women who love. And you will love them. You will find them amusing, beautiful and witty. They will remind you of something you have long lost. And when you finally clock it, I’ll be forever gone. You will love them so much you’ll remember me, in the back of your mind, for all the things you find loveable in them, you once loved about me. I don’t pretend to haunt you, but I shall.

This is a mausoleum, after all. And what is a mausoleum if not the home for those we loved, and have now become the ghosts of our lives?

This is a mausoleum. The mausoleum of our late love. The mausoleum of you, me, us. The resting place of what it once was and never again will be.

[theblindafterhours]

I cannot bring myself to sleep yet. There might be something really wrong with my head by now. I am writing this letter with no clear intention behind it, just pure melancholia— guess this is what happens when you can no longer sense pure joy in anything. Not trying to make you feel bad, though, as I had it coming for me.

At this point, self sabotage has become the norm for me. I’ve been thinking about it. Long, and hard. At the same time, though, I’ve made peace with your absence. Haven’t tried to get a hold of you for long enough, now. Probably not as long as I should’ve, but long enough to not go crazy about it. You made the bed, you’re laying on it by now. I made mine, too, not that it matters. I’ve been growing content with everything. Doesn’t mean I don’t feel you anymore. I miss you everyday. I wish you’d change your mind. Sometimes I wish I was wiser, stronger, so I wouldn’t still wish for us to make sense. Months go by so swiftly I’ve lost track of time. Everything feels so devoid of color. I have a good time only to ruin it in the end by wondering how you’re doing.

I just know you’re doing amazing. My guts tell me you’re probably getting to know somebody else. I guess it’s for the better. I wish I could forget you. Nobody ever felt so hard to get over. Maybe it says something about the love we shared… or so I’d like to think. That’s all I do these days— think. About us, about you, about all the different ways I should’ve acted instead of the way I did. I tend to blame myself for it. Why wouldn’t I, though? I broke it off so many times your trust in me ended up diluted enough for you to never trust me again. I don’t trust anyone. I probably have been broken beyond repair and I’ll never be able to feel good. I loved you so much I would’ve done anything you asked me to. I still do, I’m afraid, but I’ve chosen to keep at least an ounce of my dignity. I’ve accepted, too, the fact that you never did nor will you ever want me as much as I did and do. Not every love is meant to last. I’d be lying if I said I thought that of ours before, however, as I did. Fiercely. When I thought of you, I saw my future so vividly. Now, I don’t know.

I won’t ask you to come back. I’ve dreamed of you enough these days to be so foolish. I tried to manifest you back into my life, but I’m quitting. There’s no use for any of it. You don’t love me, and I have to pick up the pieces of my shattered heart left behind. I won’t hold it against you. Can’t make you love me, I wouldn’t be able to bring myself to do it.

I wish you the best. I will love you forever. If you don’t come back to me, I wish to be able to move on from you in a way that it feels like a distant memory. Pain free.

[theblindafterhours]

Happy birthday, my dear love. There’s no bad blood. I hope everything’s going exactly the way you want it. I expect I’m strong enough to have this be the very last thing I write to you. Have a good life, too.

[theblindafterhours]

Saturday, November 18th.

Today, you finally exited my life. It was a low blow, the one you gave me—as low as your interest these days. I am taking it. I am taking it and I am burying my love beside it. I still think my love knows no boundaries when it comes to you, somehow. Yet, I’m taking a step back for once and for all. I won’t wait for you anymore. I’m not waiting for you anymore. You are no longer waiting for me. I owe you the same courtesy you gave me every time I disappeared. This time, however, I don’t expect anything from us.

[theblindafterhours]

Bleeding.

I’d love to stop bleeding from this wound. From this flesh, from this scar you opened again after I thought it’d never open again. If I knew better, I’d be dead by now— the blood flow hasn’t stopped, the hurt has known no limits since we last spoke. I’ve been sending signals, only for them to get lost in translation. I’ve written letters, that you’ve read but never replied. A part of me, foolish one, has told me that you might be as hurt as I am, as your pride has known no bounds before. You’re prideful, as prideful as I am stubborn. You’re fire, sure thing, but I’m air.

I am trying to collect myself as I wait, foolishly, for a response, small and insignificant if needed. I’ve been deprived of you for too long, but not as long as we once were of each other. I want to believe you miss me, too, but it might just be my own delusion. Your silence has said more than your words these days. My rationality tells me to leave you. To let you grow your peace. To let you go for once and for all as you no longer love me like I still do love you. But my heart says otherwise.

As it beats, it tells me to wait. To wait for your words to get to me. Your letters to find my hands. My heart doesn’t know about your love, as I’ve shut down all possibilities to get to me, but knows you. What I used to know, at least. So I, against my better judgment, wait mindlessly for you to come back to me. I sit and wait. I look out my windows waiting to see you. I wait for my phone to alert me of you. But nothing ever happens, and I’m left disappointed. I know this is a prison of my own making, but can you understand me for once? I’ve been reckless with your heart, as you’ve been with my mind. I’ve broken your heart as you’ve, also, broken mine. I’ve been harsh, but you’ve been uncaring.

You said you loved me a month ago, how fast can a heart change course? Did you lie, then, or are you lying now?

Which one is it?

[theblindafterhours]

The Route.

I’ve committed the greatest offense, the biggest crime against my own sanity and better judgment. I’ve ran to you. I’ve extended my arms to reach yours, and the floor has disintegrated while under me. I’m drowning, ever so strongly, in an infinite pool made out of my tears and frustration.

I want you.

I want you, but I’ve reached my final limit. The strong woman in me is no longer a woman grown, but a girl who’s afraid of loneliness and the materialized monsters of her anxiety. I love you. I will always love you. I’ll always want you, too, even when you no longer do. If you ever did. I’ve written my final testament, I’ve sent it to you in the most sincere, vulnerable manner possible by this girl that seems to be trapped inside my aching body. I cannot bring myself to cry anymore. My stomach twists itself, however, with every hour that passes by, followed by your silence. The silence I feared when I wrote it. The silence I felt was coming when I sent it. There’s nothing for me to expect from you, now, other than your silence, as you’ve proven me I’m worth nothing to you.

I wish I was wrong.

I’ll take your silence, I’ll back off for good. I’ll travel back to the land from before you, if I dare to remember the route. If I’m gonna die, let it be far, far away from you, so I don’t give you any reasons to laugh at me with your indifference.

[theblindafterhours]

Never.

Lately, I’ve grown to detest nights. To lay awake, to remain silent in this bed unable to shake the remains of you off of me.

What I once love has become my worst nightmare— to not sleep means I’ll end up thinking of you, which I loathe.

I hate the fact that you’re living unbothered by me, while I have to go on living thinking of your every move, and whether you found my replacement yet. I shouldn’t care, though, as you never loved me. It comes in waves.

[theblindafterhours]

Hope.

There’s this weird feeling in me, still, that things might still resolve and go back to what they were.

I know I’m being delusional. Perhaps, my delusion is what’s keeping me partially sane these days. These days where you’re nowhere to be found, yet everywhere I look at. I cannot seem to shake you off of me. Nowadays, your presence feels like a forever stained blouse I still love and cannot bring myself to throw away. You’ve left your mark on everything I do, think and see, and what for?

I’m still on the fence about your intentions. I know pretty well it’s more than possible you’ve done all of this only for me to fall and suffer. To be as miserable as one can be. And I know it’s pretty naïve of me to still hope for your good intentions. I used to think I knew you so well I simply cannot bring myself to accept you as a traitor. This love I bear for you is so great it knows no bounds. It doesn’t believe you capable of hurting me as much as my head does.

There’s still hope in my heart for you to come back to me, eventually, when your pride is no longer able to contain your love for me, if there’s any left. If there’s any love at all. If there ever was. You’re as prideful as you’re compassionate, or so I’d love to believe.

What’s yours will come back to you, I’ve been told. Love will prevail in the end. At least, mine will. So I’ll set you free, from afar, even if I still love you and my heart is as full of you as it is.

Please, come back. I miss you.

[theblindafterhours]

Still.

You still fucking linger here, inside my head.

There’s an empty space were you used to be. Some sort of void, a vacant, broken place you used to fill with your persistent presence. I loved you so hard it hurts every and each passing day.

I wish I could erase you. Pretend, as you do, like you never existed here, so I can move on with life as intended. I cannot move on if I know you exist at the same time I do, not loving me. I cannot bear the cross of your disdain, I cannot fathom the indifference. There’s no way my heart can take the weight of this loss. Your lost. Our lost.

Great loves die everyday. There isn’t one that is infinite, not even the greatest, most publicised of them. I always thought of us as an exception. What a gullible soul, what an imaginative child. If I loved you this hard, but you no longer do, what does that make of me? Foolishly, I still harbour hope for us, regardless of my better judgment and the shadow of dignity you left in me when you professed the love you once bore for me is no longer there. In spite of logic, I stand here, loving the very soul that fractured mine, for you are more myself than I am.

Death has come to collect my love, and the memories that you left behind with me to torment my silence and the little joy that still remain. It has come, and knocked on my door with the top of its scythe, but I’m yet to let it in. I cannot do it. My love is mine, small as it is, and fragile as it has become. I’d rather let it take me than my love, for it’s the only remaining part of you that still belongs to me, and you didn’t take with you.

There isn’t coming back from this, that, I know. There isn’t coming back from you. You left, this time for good, and I’ll have to learn to live with your absence. I wish we had more time. I wish you wouldn’t run away from me as much as you did. I wish I was braver, or stupider. I wish I was a gullible as necessary to pretend your lies weren’t lies, and your promises as empty as they truly were. I wish I had chosen ignorance, rather than the horrible truth of knowing your love was never mine as it was your hatred.

What would I give to have your love, instead of your never ending vengeance.

[theblindafterhours]

Siege.

I’ve made up my mind today. Despite my heart still beating for you, I’ve chosen myself. Whatever that may be.

I wish you’d love me as much as I loved you, but that would be too much to ask. I’m out of demands and free of questions, that you never answered, not even incorrectly. I’ve seen you change in front of my eyes and now I don’t know you anymore. I don’t know the man I loved more than myself. I don’t recognize the stranger that looks in my direction and tells me, blankly, that he doesn’t love me as he used to.

There’s nothing but rotting work in my mind. My head cannot picture you in good light, and neither do I. Nor do I want to. You’ve lost me, or, better put, you’ve lost the love I offered you so many times I stopped counting. This love will now turn into the greatest indifference.

I’m proclaiming myself indifferent to you from now on. Indifferent to your existence, to your words, to your pretend love that you showered me with for these past few years.

I’ll call your name in solitude only, and I sincerely hope it never comes to it… as I’ve fallen prey to this, the greatest pain I’ve ever felt and will ever feel. From then, I’ll reap my resentment when it has sown.

I’d tell you to not be surprised, but I don’t think you’ll ever be surprised by it. You want me to move on, you want me to suffer. You’ll never leave me, though, as your sole purpose in life appears to be to torment me. I’ve misjudged you, it seems. I’ve thought of you as my lifelong companion, my best friend. The reflection of my very soul. Now, when I think of you, I can only see my executioner. The man who passes the sentence is the man that takes the sword, but you’re such a coward that you prefer me to rot— my head half axed, laying coldly on top of the scaffold I proclaimed mine with my blood now partially dried. I won’t give you the satisfaction of calling out this love that I felt for you as my pleading for forgiveness or freedom, though, as I’d much prefer the risk of dying by the wounds, or a broken heart. Whatever comes first.

This heart of mine is fortress, that forever waits for the time your troops come to start a siege. You won’t find me, however, as well as you won’t find my heart, for it is forever closed to you.

I hope you end up coming into your senses and decide to look out of me. I hope you look for me. I hope you long for this woman that loved you in spite of your lies and your many excuses. I hope you love her ever so strongly. I hope you feel like dying if not with her. And, when those times come, I hope you die of a broken heart, for I wish to be strong enough to really not love you anymore.

Goodbye, love of my life. I hope you’re miserable.

[theblindafterhours]

Es tan corto el amor y tan largo el olvido.

[theblindafterhours]

I think loving you made me into the woman I am today— I wish it wasn’t the case.

[theblindafterhours]

Love lost.

I used to think I knew you better than yourself, and that you knew me better than I do, too. I used to think a lot of things, it seems, of which the majority was false. I cannot pretend any longer that I know you as much as I used to. Perhaps, I never knew you at all.

I wish you would shake this pain off of me. Exorcise me of the demons of doubt, pain and anger, and bring back the blind trust I had in you, as I long for it even now, when everything seems to have fallen into its rightful place. I wish you would do anything, really, instead of nothing at all. For I would’ve gone to the ends of this earth only for you.

I’d like to say I don’t love you anymore. To say, bluntly, that the love I used to have for you is long gone, in the past and already buried underneath my feet, but I’d be lying. You’ve lied to me enough for me to swear off all lies for good.

There’s this secret compartment inside my chest where your love used to rest. Untouchable, invisible to the human eye. There was only one key. You must’ve taken it away from me, for I cannot find it anymore. And you took your love, too, and now it seems like an endless vacancy that I’ll never be able to fill again. I know love isn’t forever, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want ours to be everlasting. I’ll always do, even now. I’m afraid I’ll always love you with the same intensity I loved you the first time, years ago. Love is a choice, and my choice hasn’t changed.

I desist, though. I’m making my peace now.

I used to lie all the time, before I met you. I used to lie for sympathy, for kindness, for fun. My lies were the armor with which I’d defend myself from outside’s mistreatments. I’ve never, not once, lied to you. I could never lie to you as I see you as more me than myself. There will never be another love like this for me. You might love a thousand people the same way you once—if you ever did—loved me, but there will never be another you in my life. I’d swear off a family just to be with you. I’d drown myself at sea just to save you. I’d drive hours to you if you felt like dying. I’d leave everything behind if you wanted me to. There’s no such thing I wouldn’t do for you. Except going away.

I’ve spent years loving you, and I simply cannot stop doing so. I’ve loved you through my doubts, through your possible resentment, through distance and pain. I’ve loved your jokes, your mood swings and the beautiful ways you used to tell me you loved me. There’s a conflict in me. There’s a two way road going through both my mind and heart, where uncertainty and trust fight to the death for my attention. One tells me you love me still, while the other reassures me you never did. I asked you to tell me you don’t love me, and you obliged. Both roads, faithful to their predicaments, told me that you both never loved me and that you only said it to calm me down and give me what I asked for. As selfish and delusional as I am, I’d love to pretend is the latter.

I’m losing my mind with your silence. However, is all I needed to know. Your silence is louder than the possible words my mind made up for your mouth to say.

I’d like to stop hurting. I’d prefer to numb myself forever so I don’t have to face the fact that you don’t love me and never will. That this life I envisioned with you isn’t, and never was, an option. To hell with family! If you didn’t want to be a father, I’d be your longtime partner in calmness. I’d sit silently by your side as you do as you please. The love I bear for you is so strong it knows no boundaries, nor difficulties. If your love is small, mine is big enough for the both of us. Even when I left, you never left me. You have marked me yours from the start, unknowingly, and I’ve never been able to erase you from me. Never will. I’ll be yours forever, even if we never find our way back to each other. Even if I marry another, even if I don’t marry at all. You’ll always be the first one who really saw me, and who I let myself be completely seen by.

With a heavy heart, I’ll begin not to love you. I’ll trick myself into delusion, I’ll swallow my thoughts until nothing remains of them. I will blind myself and detach my heart from this love that I still feel for you so there’s nothing to hurt me anymore. I’ll take your silence as sufficient answer to my question, and label it as holy gospel.

I will no longer exist for you, but you will forever exist for me, as this self inflicted delusion can only get me so far.

[theblindafterhours]

A soul, for an action

I wait for your love to come into me, while you still have it warm inside your chest. I sit, ever so quietly, at the back of my house with my legs on the steps as I watch the starry night gone by. My cigarette consumes itself and with every try, so does my patience. I’ve given up hope now. I’m as empty as the last beer bottle you once drank and left you incommunicated for two days.

I wait for your love to come into me, as if it weren’t already dried and dead inside you.

There’s no amount of wishful thinking that can bring it back, as you already killed it and buried it under the hardwood floors of your conscience. I, myself, have let it die by now, and managed to make peace with its absence. ‘Lonely road ahead,’ my head reads me. I’ve wanted to kill every ounce of love for you that’s still left in me, yet it finds ways to root itself even harder, crushing my ribs and squeezing my insides til the point I feel like losing all recollection.

I guess I’ll never be able to kill it entirely, nor do I want to, really.

I’d rather die than lose it— a life without your love I can live, but not one without the memory of it. I cannot picture myself without the memory of what it felt to be loved by you, all flawed and raw. Naturally loved, imperfectly loved… unconditionally loved. Loved.

I’ve come to terms with your possible resentment, as well as your overall unresponsive goodbye, or lack there of. Now I get it, now I feel it. I renounce my urge of going after you, as I give up on all reconciliations. The man I loved is gone, I’m afraid. The man I met is no longer on the table. We grew, and such as weeds, our existences started to wither away our love. For everything I harbor of us, I cannot push you to come back. To me, to us.

What once fit, doesn’t have to recreate itself to do so anymore.

I prefer to remember your love as you left it.

I will forever love you, and I’d still choose you in an instant. I’d renounce all that is sacred to me only to be with you, despite it going against whatever’s sacred for the rest of this world. Even if you never want to marry, I’d spend my life with you. If you ever changed your mind, I’d give you a family in an instant. I’d bent myself backwards to make you happy. I’d devout myself to you if you only ask me. My soul for an action.

Whatever’s meant to be, will always find its way back. I used to think that way about you and I. ‘We will always make sense.’

Unfortunately, I don’t think that’s the case for us anymore.

[theblindafterhours]

I can’t give you any other sunshine, star, or midnight. Just some afterglows and dawns, all yet to be born. The rest, well, I’m afraid I’m no longer able to give. 

I think it gets to a point where you don’t really know what to do, or say, or expect. I no longer know what to expect when it comes to you, but that goes without saying. You have salted my earth so I can’t love anybody else as much as I once loved you, but I’m afraid to accept —and say—, that I’m not even mad anymore. Just a little nostalgic, probably even sad. You get to keep your sanity, while I have to fight with the terrors of your existence colliding with that somebody else’s. 

Those sugar-coated tears cannot fall from my eyes.

I’m destined to the lonely, barren desert of my memory. Where no new memories are created, nor any other old one is kept. To the never-ending saga of wanting, but not being wanted back. I’d like to say you love me, but what’s the point in lying to myself? I’ll take the sadness, but you get to keep my disappointment.  

Guess our love wasn’t made for success, but just to keep other desperate romantics and cynics alike at rule. 

I wish you the best, fallen lover. But my love and I will be walking out the door.