I went out today. There was rain falling from the heavens; there was wisps of fog caught in my hair. While walking lazy streets I saw them: One young love struck couple. Neither of them older than sixteen.
The boy taller than the girl, shooting past her like a beanstalk, peering down at her in admiration. The girl, brown tresses escaping her winter cap, smiled as if she knew some intricate elegant truth of the universe (all while she gazed at him). Upon witnessing such a private scene of youthful romance, I felt the interior of myself collapse. I made a wish.
Internally I thought, let them never part. Even if their roads diverge, let them love on. Let them not forget these moments when and if things grow bitter. Please. Then I passed the duo, biting my lower lip in worry. I may not look like much, but I know what it means to lose. I know how it is to be the forsaken forgotten one. It isn’t pretty.
Your tender affection becomes poisonous. It pollutes their blood, clogs their veins and stops their heart. You (once more treasured than the holy grail) transform into a wicked leech, a life sucker. The host you clung to wants nothing more to do with you. The memories you bring taste of bitter ash lined with stale regret. In one clean surgeon’s cut, they remove the sum of you effortlessly. All is done. Any farewells made are rushed without consideration.
May that idealistic couple neither be the crushed nor the suffocated. May such devotion burn, endlessly vibrant among so many stars. I wish, I wish, I wished for that. I did. I wished for happy endings and innocence to remain pure and white and unblemished. Mostly, I think, I was wishing for myself. I was wishing for someone to stand in the cold with; I was wishing for an innocent long thriving love of my own. I was, I was and am wishing for hope.