Peripheral Vision

This is another story of you. Myriads of poetries were already written by me. Almost half of it was for you. But you never read even one of it.  The last time I wrote was about having a period to all the semicolons that I have made. A period. I mean an ending, I thought. You are already immortal. (Well, thanks for me for making an everlasting piece.).But your name has always been a part of my piece

Well, perhaps, Newton’s Third Law of Motion is not applicable in liking someone. Okay, I do not want to have deeper meaning. It is not yet love. I know that my pituitary gland releases hormones that sometimes become imbalanced. Perhaps, I could blame all my  hormone-producing glands for liking you. It is normal. Normal in my stage. Normal in my age. I hope so. I think even the -9.8 meter per second per second acceleration due to gravity is not responsible in making people fall in love. But thank you for existing so I can like you and because of that, I became a literary warrior"

My friends do not know about you. Nobody. Well, honestly, it is hard for me to hide but thanks to God that He gave the talent of pretending. I am capable enough to conceal this strange feeling that always visits me whenever I feel your presence. Act normal. Yes, normal. Sure, I can. I could. I must. I do not want to be obvious. I may appear calm but deep inside, you leave me breathless. I also do not want to have a reason for them to tease me. I am one of the great bullies and I should not be dominated. So I have decided to hide you behind every letter that no one could decipher. You are not the Dark Lord but you are He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

You were made champion in the poem-writing contest. In Spoken word poetry. (Well, I know I am just blessed.) Made me fly in my limitless imagination. Made me write about being abandoned.Made me look uglier than the usual ugliness. But this not about me, is it? Nobody wants to hear my story. Nobody wants to listen. That is why even if it is difficult, no matter how small my fingers are, I spread it wider and wider, as much as I can, to catch all the pain, cry out all the aches in just my own hands. I did not speak about the wounds. How my heart bleeds until it became afraid of loving.

I am just always behind. Behind. I want to hear your new story. This is about you. Tell me about how the sparkling tears that were left behind every night you cried for her. This is about you. Tell me about your favorite vice. Is it still watching her at the back of her eyes? This is still for you. Before, you are just a name. You are not even a phrase until you became my subject in my entire piece. Myriads of poetries were already written just for you. But I just paint your loneliness, happiness and different emotion through the letters. But you are not made of metaphors. You are a man. Skin and bones. Blood and veins. You are not a promise. But it does hurt you. It rips  the skin off of your cardiac muscle.

I have realized one thing. We are both staring from behind. You look at her, I look at you. We are just in peripheral vision. Staring quietly. Loving silently.

P.S. This essay was been made by Maricho Tagailo, a writer, a listener, a love, a masterpiece, an art.She's a very close friend and she wrote this just last year for our news letter's feature.

P.P.S She didn't knew I posted this. It's worth the read,right?