This is not a poem, with its limitations that bring it beauty and elegance.
It is prose kissed by a poem, a prose that rises liberally without much rule or thought.
Rises over the seas and streets of pain, over each emotion that betray the reason.
Rises over those dark and sweet emotions, that cry pain that is tender, being hit not by a beast, but by an indistinguishable beauty.
The sweet pain of the love without correspondence, the sweet kiss of betrayal, the kiss you prefer over no kiss at all.
It is dark yes, its lingering dark smoke rises with great turmoil, but it smell of roses, yes, its smell its sweet.
It is the only kind of pain that you like to have, a pain that sits next to happiness, success and victory. A pain that romanticizes sadness.
It is anxiety yes, but not the one that fills you with trembling limbs, that hypnotize your mind with foreboding thoughts, but one that slaps your cheek to only offer a kiss.
It starts with a drink too many. Isn't it always that way? A drink that betrays your reason, a drink that let your emotions carve out of you like little beasts, scary to me, pleasing but useless to him.
A drink that fly in your emotions, over your seas and streets of pains, that fly liberally in you without much rule or thought, that reveal painful memories, secrets that you share only in close company.
It is the walking with him, the perennial hug over his waists and shoulders, the horrible clearness of your feelings to him, when to me you only offered them covered with fog and a mountain covering the sun.
How is jealousy important when I don't have you? How is betrayal possible when you were never mine? How is expectancy expected when I'm not available? When I am tied up with past decisions. Decisions that I could get off of, ties I could untie, only if I'm corresponded by you, only if you gave the green light, only if your promise brought compromise, only if you had offered me those feelings clearly, not hiding your sun behind fog and mountain. How is expectancy expected when my sweet clearness is hiding in a dark corner? Couldn't you see my signals, my lighthouse beaming dimly over your seas and streets of pain? Couldn't you distinguish my sun behind the fog and the mountain? My feelings for you were bullets fired with a silencer, a stealthy move to contemplate the rumored feelings clearly, the suspected treasure hiding behind your closed door made of gold, a door that seemed to promise much, a door with words almost too small to read, those words seemed to say “you may come in if you can”.
Only a drink too many, that's all it was needed for him to open this door, a door where no words were visible to him, a door where the gold covering it was indistinguishable for him, its beauty tragically ignored. A door he did not want to open, but you still opened for him. Now you know, do you? Now you feel the sweet pain of not being corresponded, do you? Now, when reason covers your feelings, where the drink too many is gone, you realize do you? You realize that the horrible clearness of your feelings were ignored, were trapped at his hands, covering his face to make them foggy, to put a mountain behind your sun. Now you may contemplate the dark smoke with its sweet smell of roses, being beaten by indistinguishable beauty. Now you may romanticize sadness, and enjoy being kissed by anxiety after a slap in the cheek.