Anemoia

I remember.
I remember the sunny afternoons. The heat of the sun. Shades of trees like botches of black paint on a white canvas. Cicadas buzzing together. I remember it all. All of it, including her. Sitting beside me. Her arms wrapped around mine, her head against mine. The cool breeze running through my hair. I remember looking at her. Her eyes, blue as the ocean, quenched my thirst with the freshness of the ocean. Her soft words filled my ears.
Yes, I remember it all.
All the moments we spent together. All the times we stayed up past midnight, talking about anything that came to mind. With her, I felt the actual freedom. The freedom that wars had promised, love delivered. I was broken. I had lost pieces of myself. She gave those broken pieces back to me. She fixed me. To her, I was a kintsugi, that my cracks and seams make me who I am.
But just as life is the birth of death, fixing is the birth of being breakable again. A mirror, broken, can be fixed. It can also be broken again. Only this time, it becomes harder to fix.
And that is what she did. She broke me again. Now she sits among stars and moves with the wind. All while I stand on the ground, watching.
Watching and realizing my life’s greatest mistake. The mistake of not reaching out when she was in reach. Not telling while she still talked. I was left, alone, broken, shivering in the cold wind.
But then again, she was never really mine. There stood a distance between us. Always. She never knew me. But I have always known her.
All it ever was, was anemoia.

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