When Khaled Hosseini said “And that’s the thing about people who mean everything they say. They think everyone else does too.”
I felt the words stab right through the heart, puncturing all my hope
of us getting back together.
The thing about hope is, it never dies, just shifts dynamics of sanity and inertia
when we need to make a choice between mind and heart, tracing the sounds
of our own footsteps until everything stops making sense altogether.
The last time we met, you said we were insufficient for each other,
that the air left between us could only fill one pair of lungs,
that we needed to kill love and survive on the hope that one day
love should be sufficient for both of us and that you might find the
courage to wait until the day transpired, wading through hiccups and sneezes.
but for now, you wanted to pack our memories in a safe deposit, locked
away from the sight of the world where love wasn’t meant to be true
until it brought pain and suffering,
until all it rendered were requiems of subdued dreams and
until I stopped complaining about how you tasted of cheap alcohol
every time you kissed me and how I hoped one day, you would start
drinking bitter coffee instead.
You see! Hope is my middle name and I was still hopeful of you finding your way
back to me;
until I read somewhere that, to kill love and survive on hope would mean
to keep the heart’s door locked with keys thrown into the ocean,
and it broke my heart.