Secret

“These violent delights have violent ends And in their triumph die, like fire and powder Which, as they kiss, consume” ― William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet

I Love Him --

this used to be my secret,

one I held dearest.

Locked in my diaries --

countless pages of tenderness.

Woven in my paces --

knotted motion of hesitation.

Hidden behind my lips --

silent cry of love.

Never dared to reveal it

nor dreamed to take it further.

Yet that kiss in the backstage of high school drama,

that very kiss --

imbued with joy of requited love

and sorrow of a doomed end --

sowed the seed of our tragic romance.

Countless times,

I cried helplessly --

knowing he would never be mine,

knowing after all it was just a fantasy,

knowing I had to leave.

Spectra of joy and anguish, 

I have been there.

Only that happiness is fleeting moments

and that heartbreak is the permanent state.

Finally I decided to leave, 

trying my best to forget him, 

to act as if I didn’t care.

His eyes, the watery blue ponds, 

now are filled with hurt 

and dwindling reflection of me.

He lets go of my hands coldly.

He turns

and walks away.

My stony face finally cracks, 

along with my heart.

“Dummy, can’t you tell I’m acting?” 

I want to scream.

Tears drop.

I try to smile.

“This is for the best,” 

I convince myself vainly.

Faintly gasping out his name, 

like repeatedly whispering a prayer, 

I call him one last time,

before he turns to the next corner 

and forever evaporates from my world.

He turns;

the same blue eyes search for something in me.

But I 

am

speechless.

“You have nothing to say,” 

he says

and finally disappears.

A question without a question mark.

How much I wish 

we could have died with that kiss.

Author's Note

Don't cry.

Reviews

[Laz K.]

It's almost a year since you wrote this. Do you see things differently, I wonder. Does time heal wounds, open new doors, erases old lines and rewrite stories? "Fire and powder..." sounds like it was something powerful, explosive. One admirable trait of man is ingenuity: he learns from his mistakes, covers his scars, and learns to use fire and powder to build an engine that can fly him to the stars.
Happy anniversary.

[Laz K.]

"knowing he would never be mine,/knowing after all it was just a fantasy,/knowing I had to leave."
“This is for the best,”

What is his part in all this? It seems you just made some foregone conclusions, making decisions for you and him, too. This way you double the pain: it's not just yours, but his, too.