You asked me a long time ago. I shook my head waiting for you to start your interesting explanation. It was my favorite moment when your eyes began twinkling and the corner of your lips lifted upward in almost a childish joy as you started talking.
"So, Victor Hugo—you know that French guy, right? The one who wrote poems. One day, Hugo was worried about his book's sales number, so he wrote a letter to the publisher. Now, this is the interesting part: the letter he wrote to the publisher only contains a single question mark. And you know what the publisher wrote him in return? A single period, can you believe that? Why do you think they converse in such a minimalist way?"
"... and why is that?"
But you did not answer back then. We did not even finish our topic on Hugo. You were soon too busy kissing my lips as I was busy holding you close.
It was a long time ago when we were both still naively and gullibly thought that we would stay together like that for the rest of our time. With you passionately share your thoughts and knowledge. With me enjoying your twinkling eyes and uplifted corner of your lips. Without you being so distant. Without me trying hard to decipher your acts and the minimalist words you prefer now.
Lately, we have turned into Victor Hugo and his publisher. I would give you a question mark, and you would reply back with another question mark, sometimes an exclamation mark, but most often than not, with nothing at all. This is, in fact, not a correspondence Hugo and his publisher had. Hugo sent a symbol and the publisher replied with a symbol with them having a mutual understanding of what is going on within the conversation. Both of them understood the worry, the anxiety, the uncertainty surrounding the question mark. Both of them also understood the reassuring and the consolation that the period would bring. Whereas me? Nothing but quizzical what-the-fuck-do-you-mean-by-that. I guess and guess. Comprehend. Making the connections from this dot to that dash. But the perfect answer seems nowhere to be found. And you would not budge.
If it was up to me, I would just right away ask you. What do you want? What do you mean? What do you feel? But I know if I cannot interpret those, I might as well give up on you. The me who cannot translate you is not even qualified to stay by your side.
Yes, you like explaining things you like. But with the times I spent with you, I understand that you don’t like to explain about yourself. Your feelings. Your thoughts. And as they drag you deeper, it becomes harder and harder for me to reach you. What do you have in mind that keeps you awake at night? What do you think of when you wake up so early in the morning? I cannot read you. I can do nothing when you seem so detached from the world like that. From me.
If it is that hard for you to be with me, you know, I won’t force you to be. Rather than seeing you suffocated because of having to breathe the same air that I breathe, you know perfectly well that it is okay for you to walk out anytime you want.
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Originally scribbled on March 19th, 2018
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