Pure love will always find a way to decay

In bliss, or utter arrogance, you forget about the pain that holds one in a chokehold. Pain is able to overtake a person in many types of ways and appears in different shapes. It wraps its arms tightly around you and suffocates you almost lovingly, and that’s what makes it so ridiculously addictive. The warmth, the very intimacy of pain. We miss it – we long for it the second we have forgotten about the way tears dwelled in our eyes, daring to spill and create a mezmerising glow on a freshly watered face. No one can grasp the idea of pain I tame. And pain has been the one to hurt and comfort me, back and forth, again and again, over and over. Because no soul on this earth will love pain with such hypocrisy as I do – because pain does not decay with my touch.

Invisible ropes of malicious lies and guilt are tangled up around my frail body, my every limb, and the thorns of it burry themselves in the depths of my skin, settling inside my very being. With every step I take, decay follows and the ropes tighten, and I feel embraced again by the intense familiarity of warmth and what used to be. Truly, I am falling in love to be reminded of the night he slipped through my delicate fingers like coarse, terribly hot sand. And then I forget. 

A moan left my lips as he moved against me. I reached out to touch him, feel him, to reassure myself this was somewhat real, praying in the most unholy way I would remember this. I would definitely remember this. And all I wanted to do right now was to sulk into him, drown in his voice, and rot in his body in the most poetic way, to share my pain for a second, to forget all about it in the next.

At that very moment, I believe, I didn’t care for anything in the world but him and his skin that bathed in extremely plain moonlight. I had always been an exception to him. This man killed me and brought me back to life every time I played our silly game. A game of who would break first: Was it my dead husband’s best friend, or me? Whether morals approved of my actions or not was the question that pulled me right back into reality, and him out of me. We would lay next to each other, catching our breath, enjoying the moment of temporary contentment for as long as we could, until what was once forgotten returned, and guilt was written all over his face. He would dress himself, then leave without another word spoken. Not that I cared enough to exchange another word either.

Never should one mourn alone was the idea of it all, or perhaps it had been the excuse to finally feel relief from pain and receive pleasure – I did not know then, and I don’t know now. Perhaps it is the way I see. The way I see my husband’s face in the rain when I walk to the nearby grocery store we used to visit weekly. The way I am being reminded of the love I have for him, the way I fall in love with being reminded of him. Alive he is kept in the inside of my mind by the memories stored in my very eyes, the very door to my soul – I often forget he’s dead. And I often forget I am the reason he is dead, because pure love is so delicate, it decays with my touch – and he decayed. 

Again, I am falling in love to be reminded of the night he slipped through my delicate fingers like coarse, terribly hot sand.