Yes, To You

The limbs of my being are heavy. Overweighted with the memories of the people that I could not hug anymore. Worn by years of holding on to things that cannot be relied on anymore. Scratched and marked by mountains of heavy silence. Exerted all day, every day, by people who has shown me affection and attention.

There is a faraway look in my eyes. Presences of physically absent people could be seen there, hiding in secret between the stupendous d'être and my hold on the present. Always halfway between staring at the past and glaring at the future. Swarming with faint recollections of people and places. (mostly when I was alone in the middle of nowhere town.) My lips are repeating the same words, over and over again, "I'm here, in the present."

My heart is full, somewhat returned. The memories and love I receive are overflowing. At some point will threaten to break the skin. A tough expanse that's thinning overtime with the dedication and time that innumerable people have shown me throughout the years of post-solitary. Not damaged, no, never, but flexed to accommodate the received fondness.

(And I am sorry if I can't be your light-limbed, baggage-less, unworried, confident girl with the twinkling eyes with inexperienced heart that sprawls on your afghan-covered sofa.)

(And I am sorry if I can't have you as my sole friend; I have other people, whose existence have preceded yours, that need my rapt assistance. You will be the first––in any way you could interpret it––but I can't have you as the only one that I live for.)