Himeros et Pothos

My Abulafia
My Machine

Another day has gone by with me thinking of you and remembering your scent as though you were right beside me. I think to myself, as I hear your laughter in my mind and imagine it filling the room, how long it has been since we have decided to part ways. Ironically, we were the first to go. The first to give up, the first to back out of the dance, the tango, The “vertical expression of a horizontal wish” that now serves as a metaphor for our 4 blissful months together. The first of four couples to give up. We, the ones who condemned the other three as hopefuls and naïve unaware, uneducated, ignorami.

We never did believe in love, did we? Until we both fell victim to it.

Now, I suffer the almost unbearable (oh, now I’m just being dramatic) consequence of our naïve commitment, our pathetic attempt at imitating adulthood by reenacting marriage to some extent but just a wee bit before the limits of sexual intimacy.

Sweet, unendurable memories are embedded deeply, etched, forced, imprinted on my mind. Even the seemingly innocent sweet nothings that you have whispered in my ear echo before my eyes droop and I slip into the eternally sweet comforts of sleep. Even your lewd, malicious, naughty and irresistible comments that never fail to “perk me up” continue to haunt my waking thoughts. What do you think I think about when I wake? You, of course. You conniving scum. You bastard of bastards. Jerk of Jerks. You, He Who Lacks Balls. You have done this to me. You have so imbued your being and placed such an impression on me that I am no longer capable of being with any other man, or woman for that matter, without thinking of you, without screaming out your name unconsciously, without being ghosted by your scent.

I realize, now, then, whenever, what we had was almost like a parody. No, more like a farce. Maybe we were brought together by Eros to show us how bad we’ve got it in. We, who laughed off love, shrugged a shoulder and dismissed it, were the most deeply affected of all. Oh no, you were no Romeo, and I myself were no Juliet, but oh did we make such a pair. You, my Ovid, you and your Amores, and I, your mistress, with my stupid, ambitious deception which I would come to later regret. Eros brought us together to mock us for mocking him. No, wait, he brought us together to show us that by making a mockery of his one Thing, we in the end, would be on the receiving end of a very ill joke.

“I want to hold you close, skin pressed against me tight, it’s so lovely it feels so right. I want to hold you close, soft breast, beating heart, as I whisper in your ear, I want to fucking tear you apart.”

Oh my. My Abulafia. How many pleas have I burdened you with? Oh but you are not burdened by these things for you are only a machine. A medium I have chose to express my emotions. How pathetic this must be. You that I have named after another little machine that has also been used by another tortured soul such as yours truly. An imaginary machine at that, from a book that has taught me so much. A book that became my world for 2 days and a night. What more can I say when all has been said? And with this, I bid you, adieu.

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And last night, you, wretch of wretches called me; Awakened me from my sweet blissful sleep with a modern nuisance called SMS. With the few words “Come sta? Am I invited on the 23rd?” you awoke the dormant emotions within me. The 23rd of April, day of my birth, the day I was born to be with you. I, half expecting that you would probably not reply after I did, told you that yes, of course you were invited. I didn’t expect you to come but, yes, you were invited. There, that said, I can go back and slumber. Then the wretched thing started ringing. Right next to my ear, where it has been a habit of mine to put it next to. And lo, who should be calling at that late hour, but you, my Ovid. And so I answered the call and decided to get up and try to figure out why and what the hell you were doing. A few seconds later, it was hard to miss you see, I noticed you sounded intoxicated. I asked why you called. You asked me of my suitors, who which you rival in a sense that they do something, you don’t , and yet you still expect me to choose you over them. I laughed and shrugged it off because even if I denied the implication, I knew in my bones that it was true. You, being the tease that you are and not realizing the amount of pain you were causing by reopening a closed wound, sang songs in your drunken voice asking for me to help you go to sleep because you could not on your own. This little exchange of “Go to sleep” and “Tell me something to get me to sleep” went on until 2 ante meridian. I did not want to hope again. You were making me hope for another spark. You made me feel like a child, trying to build a bonfire with one wet twig. What did you expect from calling me? That I would just pretend everything was ok and then I could go on letting you make a mockery of myself? Oh no. I knew better than that. As I recount this experience of last night, I realize that by now, you must have probably forgotten that you even ever called me. Oh, the irony of defeat.

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