Lover’s Demise

Prologue:

And every time, I hold onto the sliver of something unknown. Maybe a portion of you that was never mine or even the portion of myself that could never fill the void of losing you. I will live on, in the memories of papers, poetry, and you. I could never get over the feeling of fear that I had. The fear that is still alive. The fear that will always be alive. It is something scary. Isn’t it? Maybe you don’t have to say it. Because, my beloved, you will never know. You will never know how my existence never mattered. How I was never meant to exist. All I was in the pre-human world was a silent observer. Yet, somehow, I did live. I still live after all the ages. Not growing old because now I am cursed to let Love and Death live with me. Somehow, I left an imprint. The one that doesn’t live in me anymore. But still lives on, because broken pieces of me are indebted to you and the Sun. Whatever I had, died the moment my tongue was sliced. Unfortunately. Unknowingly. Painfully. And most important of all, unreasonably. Neither my birth nor my probable death will ever mean something. But it always will, whenever our far-apart existences burst into togetherness. Every night when you unleash the darkness of Heavens and it is always far more beautiful than the Sun’s kisses, I am overjoyed. I came into the world with euphoria but unrealistic pains and heartaches bundled up well in my backpack. Is that what life is? To want to wish for death, yet, not wanting it at all. Until you can embrace yet another poem of hers, read the book that she hides away, and know more about what and who Love is. Through the glass-like home she has built up through her bleeding pens, learns about Death. If I ever had a chance to know how the afterlife is? Does it itch every inner layer of your body? Will anyone be heartbroken on such a land? Will the void ever fill itself up? Either through flipping pages or from blood-soaked papers. Maybe that is what hurts the most. The fear of living because there are a thousand scratches on the unrepairable heart. Maybe no one will ever know. When I write about Death. It is sickening. Humans want to have thrill and romance. Feel broken yet heal like a butterfly. Maybe feel alive or simply zone out just to live in a kaleidoscope, never repeat a pattern ever again. Have a hundred new shades every day. Not knowing when the Moon escaped with her beloved Star. The love that was never imagined, yet, it was incomparable. Love that would have been the reason for the universe to have its own kaleidoscope. Its own pathways and never understanding when the sun rose under the soft undertones of saffron skies after the crusade of blackness bid goodbye to Sky. So maybe… Love was never love… And all it was from the beginning of the time was a mirage. Something that held onto the portion of human bodies that were not structured well. Formation of the meat suits holding onto all the emotions strongly enough, until, the soul rips apart the body to live at the grim reaper’s feet. So, Love… Was the mere existence of you ever real? Or you smiled enough like me to look believable. To live behind the gorgeous mask to hide what or how Death looks behind the black robes. From the reality of everything, there exists a world where everything feels normal.