Bookmark #367

I often wonder if I left a lot unsaid. It’s a consistent bother that never leaves my mind, but it’s not true because I could not possibly say all I wanted to say to you. I could not tell you how much I adored you; I could never find the right words, so I would settle for more words than good ones. I was never one to shy away from wasting words as well; look at these vignettes of my inner workings, my thoughts and observations about nothing in particular; look at my wasted hours! All I have to offer are words. Beyond that, there is little I can give anyone.

I could not tell you how much I missed you; each word would be a poor imitation of the magnitude of that longing. If I would say it to you, I would say it out of habit. It would not be an exaggeration; being habitual was the only way I knew how to live. I was a creature of habit, a denizen of the mundane. I missed you like the man who runs through the crowds of the subway station only to arrive the second the gates close, like the utterly naked tree standing by itself in the middle of winter at the minute it watches its last leaf fall, like the roll of a dice that slows down to stumble at the correct face, the right number and then turns one more time as everyone screams in dismay.

I could not divulge how angry I am with you. I couldn’t possibly find the right words. I could not tell you about it at all. So, I settled for a poor excuse: I left a lot unsaid. I left nothing unsaid. I couldn’t have possibly said everything, not if I had all the time in the world. Perhaps, that is why I begged for a lifetime. It wouldn’t have gotten me anywhere, but it would have sufficed like a shoe with a hole suffices warmth on a rainy day, like a little snack suffices hunger at three in the night, like half a sip of coffee left in the cup suffices thirst, like a kiss left midway, with an apology and a farewell, suffices forever.

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