Love and Sympathy
Gazing at my stars, I took a walk in the midst of darkness. Nights that were disgustingly painful and reflective of then, when I had everything and nothing at the same time. I was weaving a story of love and pity, where you were the thread of my tale. We built trust, conversations, dreams, stories and our never made home.
We shared secrets, we might never share again, we knew things that none might ever know, not even our souls accepted them. We were closer to each other, maybe more than we were to ourselves. We were not perfect, but I accepted us in that imperfection, but maybe I never convinced you of the same. Maybe my confidence in us was more than we deserved. We both know the rest of the story where I was the antagonist in yours and you are the thread of all my stories still. Even today, all my conversations have you in them, the dramas, and beauty of having you maybe for a while, but I had the star in my back pocket.
I don't cry foul, I never did, even though you stripped my identity to strangers for love and sympathy. Love and sympathy we built but maybe it wasn't enough to make you stay, to keep our pain and secrets in the chest. We tried, tried to make a home perfect for our story, perfect where we could build conversations out of the blue. But nothing exists anymore, neither the weaver nor the thread .
I don't blame you. Our story never had a chance, not in millions, because you were way too perfect for the chaos in me, because I wasn't perfect for the person who was more than perfect for imperfect love and sympathy.
Maybe. Do you understand?