To my most favorite almost, a couple of things.

I have always wrote about you then. To a certain extent, I thought it was excessive. Years of sitting in the sidelines drifted me to shores where love has yet to be seen. I never wrote for anyone, this you must know. For no one, except the plethora of teachers I have to pass reaction papers to. But I never wrote about love, or at least about romance. I have never wrote about anyone.

Anyone but you.

My poems may not bear your name in them but to heavens I swear that every inch of you is drilled into every single line. Every degree of how you made me feel, embossed in every letter. You were fond of poems, this I knew but I wrote so many not for you, but for me.

I needed to oust the love I housed in. It was so much, too much for me to bear nor to easily dispose. It was so magnitudinal that I thought you would not want to take it from me.

And you didn’t.

Instead, you wrote for me. You wrote about me. The same as I did for, about, you. Your poems bore all but my name, but somehow, like how yours is sketched in every meter in mine, I see mine in yours. You have not taken the love off of my chest; you added to it.

And suddenly, as if through our words, we communicated. Our love proved to be a tenfold more than the meagre we thought it was.

But all these remained pixels on screens, inks on papers.

The truth is, I was scared. So scared of letting you know how I felt. So scared of letting you know that you held the entry to my heart. So scared that letting you in would mean my undoing.

So I kept it all in, though it withered me. For to house a love so great and let it go to waste was futility, at least to me. The strange thing was I kept it, still, despite knowing that your heart begged for me. I see the longing in your eyes when they meet mine. The dazzle in your smile. The lilt in your speaking whenever we intertwine-

You were in love with me as how I were with you, but for some reason, I opted to bury what I felt so deep. Far too deep for you to sense, I guess.

Far too deep for you to find someone else.

Suddenly, your poems bore someone else’s name. The glimmer in your eyes, the sigh in your smile – all but mine.

And I kept thinking, was it my fault?

Was I to blame for failing to tell you what I truly felt? Was I to blame for this tragedy of an ending? Did I sew this tale, only to close it as well?

Or was I inadequate – too inadequate for you to take the risk? Was I too broken – too broken that you dared not mend me? Was I incomplete – a mere fraction of the grandeur you would have wanted to place your heart on?

Do not get me wrong, I do not love you anymore.

I think.

But I would like you to know that there has not been a day where I would not think of how things could have been if only I had let you in.

A pang in my chest.

A kick to my gut.

A hurt in my heart.

Over a year, my love, and I still constantly think of we could have been.


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Published by Angela Mercado