Love Language

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: True Confessions  |  House: Booksie Classic
The many ways and words I want to say to you-- the many things I never will.
True Confessions Part 5.

Submitted: July 01, 2017

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Submitted: July 01, 2017

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Every language has its own unique song, a strange symphony of upward notes and downward syllables that intermingle and intertwine into different interpretations of the same message— ‘I miss you’, said in a thousand separate ways.

Winding paths that intersect and interweave only to merge into the same road—‘I miss you’, felt in a million different expressions.

 

Mujhe tumhaari yaad aa rahi hai, they say in India, the land where I was born: it means your memory is calling to me.  You beckon from the cobwebbed crevices of my mind—plead for my attention under the dust-covered film of my intentional neglect—a forlorn summons to walk through the misty moors of my conscious to find you, to meet you again.

There is only the sound of my wandering footsteps as I search for you in the expanses of my recollection.

 

Tu mes manques, they say in France: it means you are missing from me. Your soul that was once knitted into my flesh now forever wrenched apart, your beat was my heart, your breath was my lungs. You are the part of my body, my spirit that is missing from me—you are the space between my fingers no longer wrapped around yours, foreign and cold.

There is only a hollow ache left behind in the empty space.

 

Wo xiang ni, they say in China:  it means I am thinking of you always. You are the quiet whisper at the back of my brain, soft yet insistent. You are the gentle susurration breathed into my ear, a constant reminder of your lingering presence. You are the translucent fingers ghosting over the frame of my body—faint yet pronounced.

There is only the barest chill to my skin at the imagined touch of you- the last proof that you were ever here.

 

Bogoshipo, they say in Korea: it means I want to see you (because you are not here with me). You are the restless pacing of my heart as I search the crowds for your fading figure, the dwindling hope of ever feeling the sunshine of your smile on my face again. You are my insatiable craving, the always-urge to have you come back to me.

There is only the frantic movement of my seeking hands, longing to brush against yours just one more time.

 

Aiite, they say in Japan: it means I am lonely (because I am not with you).  You are the howling winter wind that sweeps through my empty house, you are the bitter frost in the air that seeps into my bones because your arms are not there to warm it—you are the endless passage of time, slow and monotonous with the absence of you. You are the gash in my heart that still seeps the bloodied tears of your loss—the gaping black hole in my being where your light used to be.

There is only an endless, interminable agony, as I wait for time to fill your wounds.

 

 

All these sentences and stories to tell you how much I miss you, but there are none that can reach you as I finally look at your face—so close and yet so unattainably far.

You have always been so very deaf to my words.

 



© Copyright 2017 Trishala. All rights reserved.

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