“April was a lonely month to spend alone. In April, everyone around me looked happy. People would throw off their coats...”
Haruki Murakami, Norwegian Woods
Failure. Total and utter. Complete.
There was a moment when time collapsed and in a whirlpool of a black hole I fell and hooked onto a never ending parade of what?
Disappointment would include expectation - which was not present.
To fall was so easy, because the smile was so..., the only possible thing in the near future was happiness. Tenderness. If only for a moment. But this could have been my mistake. I did want - I do want more of that.
How can you miss that, this moment when all of the Universe aligns and points to one person? Everything is possible. Everything is happening.
And then?
Sorrow. Because you serve your heart of a silver plate - since you already had it prepared, you always have it prepared, you always have to be ready to jump, for the opportunity does not arise too often. And he? Looks at the plate and pokes it. Bewildered. And you look at him using a toothpick. A bloody fucking toothpick!
Who has ever, in the complete history of time, used a toothpick to handle a heart served on a silver plate?!
A toothpick.
Evidently the heart starts to bleed. And instead of pulling it away, you push it even closer. You invest all of your love, all of your trust in the obviousness of the choice, and you bleed.
Keeps coming back to this silver plate, and keeps looking.
He was close. After so many months - he was close.
And he didn't even send a text.
While the heart is getting rotten, blood turning into dust that is slowly blown away by the North Wind, the plate stays silver, sparkling in all its glory. Masterfully crafted by the hope that love is worth the trouble.
it douse.
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