I’m in love with the idea of you.
For the longest time, I’ve been spreading myself thin trying to understand it – how you can only love the mental outline of the person you used to know like the back of your hand. Whose habits you have memorized, whose peeves you’ve mastered and skillfully dodged like mines in a field, whose features you’ve committed to memory like the map to your favorite city. From that disobedient twirl of hair, to the crook of a smile the constellation of freckles, the exact number of tequila shots it’ll take before her cheeks start to flush fervently.
I used to love so many things about you. Especially the ones that others didn’t know about. Over time, I found that your vulnerabilities were just as beautiful as your strengths.
I loved our conversations – the ones we’d have over breakfast, in quiet parks, in that 30-second stoplight.
I loved your jokes, even those that weren’t particularly funny but you deliver the punchline with so much conviction that it deserved the consolation. I loved your habits, your ragged penmanship, that knowing smile that reaches your eyes when I’m just a few seconds shy of forgiving you. I loved how you slurred your speech when you’re too sleepy to talk, vomiting gibberish in low murmurs. I love how in a sea of monotonous routines, you were playfully unpredictable. You couldn’t bore me even if you tried.
I loved how you eagerly shared with me the things you loved – and I remember the warmth I felt when I would see you sigh with happiness. With Contentment. But were you? Because I was.
And so I loved you until it was easy to talk about you in the past tense. Until logic tamed emotions. Until the heart firmly understood the difference from what it wants to what it cannot have.
Now, I only love the idea of you. I love the poetry that your memories evoke. The words that gather at the bottom of my feet, slowly pooling up to my ankles like vines – begging to be written. But it ends there.
Now, you are just a muse in my art, to be displayed for all seasons in my gallery of secret regrets. I will revive you in a million ways. I will sculpt you in how I see fit. You are a mere idea. To be re-written over and over. One story with a thousand permutations. With no definitiveness. No spine nor structure. I will rewrite you over and over because I’m in love with the idea of you. Formless, boundless, infinite you.