I guess I’ll
never forget the day in which I saw you coming through that door on the subway.
We engaged a conversation because of one
of your tattoos. I’ll never forget it. And in that very moment I thought about
writing a story. There’s no way I could ever forget it.
We got to
be friends. Do you still remember the way we used to profile people based on
the books they were reading? I knew I was in love. I was truly in love. And
then there was that day in which the sun happened to bright a little bit more
than the usual, and we’ve kissed. That was the beginning of it. I still had the
image of you coming through that very door. I was sure of something: That would
kill me. I was going to suffer. A child could tell you were too much to me. I
was not enough to entertain you for much longer. You were way too much to me.
Do you
still remember how I used to take pictures of you? My pictures, my texts and my
paintings were the reason for you to be interested in me in the first place. My
artistic personality kept you from leaving me sooner.
But, as I
said, I was doomed to suffer. I can still remember your hair’s smell and
texture. And I keep trying to fall in love with the next girl who comes through
that subway door.
I’ve failed
to get over you. But what has really surprised me, is that you’ve cut your own
wrists because you were unable to get over me. And I was baffled by that letter
of yours. You could never find someone as talented as myself. You should’ve
seen the way I blushed when I read what you had written. You said I was too
much for you. Talk about tragedy!
Truth to be
told, I couldn’t do better than you, as well as you couldn’t do better than me.
I still
profile people through what they read, honey, but I’m no longer able to write,
paint or take pictures. I was right, after all. I knew I would suffer after
having tasted your lips. I just regret not having told you that. I hope you
forgive me for not keeping the promise of not omitting information from you. I
wonder whether you still remember how we’ve promised not to hide information,
but allowed each other to lie as much as needed.
Have I told
you that I hate your suicide note? Dear beloved, I still hate you, because I
know I can’t do better than you. Your beauty depresses me, your intelligence is
the closest thing I’ve known from perfection, and your sadness gave my life
meaning. That’s why I hate you. You had no right to make me fall in love with
your flaws.
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