Can you quantify love? Is there a gauge to measure the intensity of passion?
I just can’t help but ask because today, lingering warmth from a few moonlights ago followed me around hallways, climbed my desk and soaked my screen like implicit storms bleeding with maudlin dialogues from ludicrous paperbacks, taunting me with imagined words that is to become. I don’t resent your intrusion, neither do I begrudge your disturbance of the peace that has been my dreamy friend: you are a welcomed distraction, a comfort, a certain fondness that declines explanations, definitions or justifications. My frowzy world, along with its manic pace and assorted idiosyncrasies, makes me long for something — some tenderness or perhaps an overdue favor not just for myself but to tenderness itself.
It seemed like a vaguely distant remembrance — a nearly forgotten sentiment for sometime now.
Thank you for coming along, for kindly leading me back into soft sensations that I have been abandoned from until the enduring moment you wrapped my misgivings, flaws, apathy and quiet resolve around lenient tenacity. Thank you for the tolerant times when you made me blink and see the gaps and differences between reason and abandon. It’s startling and remarkable like reclamation of long-displaced possessions from childhood’s treasured past.
We bartered fears. Looked at each other from sheltered distances, calculated the risks of involvement, made furtive lists in our minds on why we shouldn’t fall into each other’s clutches. We tried to save each other from ourselves, yet the acknowledgment of ardent fires wheedle us into subtle spaces unfamiliar in everyone’s maps but ours.
We traded hopes, ideals, dreams and at times, delusions. And in doing so opened ourselves into omnipresent possibilities of disappointments and afflictions.
We lingered for a while, like dreamers off to nowhere but the mellowness of the moment. You, ever burning; me, ever intangible. Yet, fenced by abolitions, refusals and admissions, it’s overwhelming the way we find a comfortable space between breathing and wishful thinking — a sphere where everything dissolves. Are we to be blamed? Are there excuses we haven’t exhausted yet?
Sometime ago, I have read somewhere that in order to master life and love, you must know when to hold fast and when to let go. We don’t need this insight to coach us. We have been battered, shattered, hurt. Conciously or unwittingly, we inflict the same things on other people, who, like us, are also chasing possibilities at happiness. Our respective lives are testaments of treading through life complete with all the raptures and the ills we harvested along the way. “There is no right or wrong way to fall in love,” I used to quote an uncelebrated philosopher. “You just feel it.” And there lies the danger — the danger of us abandoning ourselves beside inconvenient crossroads in pursuit of that desirable fire.
I tried retreating steps in safe distances where your spirit wouldn’t linger. But those empty spaces haunt me in your absence.
Have I mentioned the difficulty of finding the right substitutes for those three tired words to articulate how much I long for you to be a definition of closure in my wanderings? How a familiar smile racing across the bows of your lips to be the very meaning of permanence in my life?
Have I said yet that you are luminous and vulnerable?
That you are beautiful?
That you are precious?