Starry Night Over the Rhone
Vincent van Gogh, 1888.
If I can go back in time with the knowledge that it would be our last conversation, last touch, and last glance, last moment with each other – I’d savor and absorb the time greedily as it counts down.
I’d ask you all of your untold stories, all of the mundane origins. All of what made you…you at that precise moment today.
I wouldn’t want to erase any of your scars, for I embrace each and every single one of them. I’d like to know how you got them, and tell you that they make you the beautiful being you are today. You were, to me, at that precise instant back then. You are still gold, but perhaps just not to and for me anymore.
I’m not in your future – the fact itself always stings like the prickles and thorns on a rose. It’s difficult to wrap my head around that at times, especially when I reminisce the wondrous times and conversations we’ve had with each other.
Perhaps I should listen and ask more the next time round with someone new, someone I’d like to keep in my life, in case it were the last time I look into that person’s eyes’ again.
I’m sorry we managed to lose each other, as this is always a mutual ordeal, and no one’s fault in particular in most cases.
Thank you for the personal tidbits you’ve recounted to me. I’ll keep those stored and safeguarded somewhere in my heart.
I hope you manage to speak up and share out some of your untold stories to someone you love, at this precise moment – today.
We never know who is going to stay more permanently, anyway.