methodically devoted to you

i wake up every morning, with the anticipation running through my brain, the hope coursing through my veins, that a singular affect of reaching out and touching angels has been seen by God, himself and that, maybe, he will find pity in his metaphorical heart such that stars and planets are aligned, and miracles are once again borne from thin air, creating an anomaly in reality, to make wishes reality.

but that is not today.

seven years in the making, a shakespearian tragedy, an austen-idyllic romanticism, a byron poem-in-arms, an etcetrian fumble. and remember, self, that you heard it first here.

a wise person once told me that love and affection is not pre-ordained. it is not the substance of destiny, and neither is it the hand of fate. it does not fruit from karma, and does not bear the mark of hard labour and effort. nay, it is simple and self-fulfilling, like an oedipean prophecy, in which the ends ironically (and iconically) enact themselves out. in words truer than most ever spoken, this person told me that love, lust, destiny and everything related are all made or broken in the image of those who would will these things into existence. succinctly, you love that which you want to love, irrespective of being made for each other or contrarywise.

and to this philosophy, you are resultant of an experiment more profound and more beautiful than young's double-slit. if, with every waking day, just as i begin with anticipation, i end with thoughts of forevermore falling deeper and drenching thicker in a presumptive, one-sided love. if, just as desperation gives way to hope as, again, nothing risked is nothing gained. then, i have set up, against multi-variant resistances, a dystopian reality in which i can conduct serial attempts at loving and longing for that which is never meant to be mine, and this is (who is to say?) thine own.

and, to secure each and every dependent response, which we thenceforth define as love, i think it is only appropriate that we secure an independent cue, which we hencewith define as everything, and anything one can cling to that reminds me of you - the scent of your hair, ablaze and alight by the frigid winter air. the sheen of your eyes, reflected in the dreary, dark and desperate wisp of a starry night. the glow of your smile, accentuated by the lonesome and resounding noiselesness in a city's din. the efflorescence of your laughter, playing an octavial symphony, ringing in my ears perpetually after you are gone from sight and lost in the busies of your new life. and most importantly. most determinedly. most surreptitiously. the feel of your skin; the looseness of your hugging arms; the sweet softness of your emotional embrace, everything that is you, splintered and juxtapositioned against the cold, timid, haunting eeriness of reality. only you.

with each and every trial (and subsequent error) of making myself love and lose, i feel that the initial feeling is lost, replaced by an anomalous and effervescent feeling that i cannot describe, moulding my innards in its image, a grotesque and disfigured; appalling and repulsive figure that i can only imagine is the image i fail to see in every mirror, in every shadow under the noon sky.

but i cannot resist to think that, maybe. hopefully. possibly. god, i wish it were. true, real and unadulterated.

instead of the obvious, undeniable reality that, by methodical and unforgiving self-loathing, this is nothing but pavlove.