You took a swig of beer, grimacing. I simply watched you in fascination, my arms crossed over my chest, limp, with my head pounding, my vision spinning.
“You.” You said, pointing at me. “You know how it feels like.”
I tilt my head to the right, my head feeling like it weighed tons. “What?”
“What does it feel like? Loving me, I mean? You’ve been doing it for what, 3 years?” You squint, almost jeering.
I straightened up, shrugged and said, “You wouldn’t want me to describe it.”
Your head bobbed up and down, your eyes never leaving mine. “Yes I would. I trust your judgments.”
You waited for a few minutes, your bottle of beer forgotten.
I wanted to tell you that loving you felt like I was underwater, but I didn’t know how I got there. I refused to resurface, believing there was still something left to save, something to salvage, and something that could be for us. I was using every bit of oxygen I had in store, blinded that I was slowly dying in the process. And my lungs felt like they were about to burst, bubbles escaped my lips, floating over me, beckoning, but instead of pushing against the pressure of the current, I let it push me even deeper down, down, down. And I close my eyes because I can’t resurface just yet.
But I didn’t.
Instead, I told you that loving you felt like a fresh breath of air when you’ve been in the city for too long. It was refreshing, like water on a scalding burn, like sunshine on a gloomy day, like the excitement you feel when you received a letter from a friend who lived far away, or like you just topped your exams. It was familiar, like eating your favorite candy when you were a child, or running along the meadow with a kite in tow, or holding your best friend’s hand when the world turned its back on you. It was satisfying, like a pint of ice cream when you just had a bad day, like finishing a book you never thought you would, or a mother’s hug when you needed it most.
When I finished, you looked astounded, shocked into silence.
I pursed my lips. “I told you so.”
“You know,” you straightened up, “You’ve always been a poet when asked about these kinds of stuff, yeah?” You paused, shaking your bottle a little. “But you’re my poet. Always will be.”
And I smiled, wishing that were true.