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Wasteful Vacancy

I was thirteen when I had my first personal tryst with romance. I usually don't count this particular instance considering the naivete of that age, but I'm nobody to invalidate somebody else's feelings. It was the second bench of the last row in the classroom, I still remember. I sat alone, studying for the upcoming exams, when it happened. It was a very mature conversation actually, considering the lack of a happy ending.

The next instance came about three years later. That one went all out. On a knee, a letter in hand and a smile on their face. It was beyond adorable, not to mention exceedingly flattering. I would have liked to preserve the relationship, but apparently that's not how these things work. Such a shame.

The time after that, that's the one I regret most. It was serendipitously a beautiful setting. Nature gave us mood lighting, and a light drizzle soon after. The only one that was incredibly difficult to turn down, and the only one I sometimes wish I hadn't, probably not for the right reasons though. Maybe it was for the best, they deserved so much better than me.

The last one, the one I hate. A conversation over text in late hours. The quiet of night is supposedly tender enough to make up for the human element in these situations. Ironically, it's the one that worked out. Bizarre, but the heart wants what it wants, clearly. Not in the long run though, it ended as it started. Call me crazy, but I blame the beginning, it had bad juju all over it.

I wonder what the next one will bring. I wonder if there will be a next one. If all these years have taught me something, it's that I'm good at being in love. No, I'm good at being alone. I'm great at love, if I may say so. To a pragmatic, this might seem like the ramblings of a desperate individual. But pragmatics don't understand poetry. They talk, but they don't know how eyes can connect souls better than words ever could. They live, but their hearts are mere pumping machines.

Me? I listen to music in a dark, silent room, and I feel too deeply. I write of maudlin sentiment, I dance with a pillow, and I dream dreams with my eyes open. I reread old letters, and I look at old photographs and I refuse to let go of the days gone by. I break a little each morning, and I'm whole again before I go to bed each night. I talk of hope and faith when there's none in sight, and I constantly look for a sparkle in an otherwise tedious world.

I enjoy being utopian, even to the point being preposterous. At least this way, life would be more art, less argumentation. And yes, I desperately look forward to love. What else is there anyway?

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Grateful and more, yes, but fuck my life.


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