Over

It is over.

It lasted all of 3 years and 3 months. One would think the ending would have been heartfelt or at least accorded with a little respect; a little tenderness; a little reluctance.

But no, it was over without a whimper. It was over in the coldest way possible.

I had given it everything I had; even what I did not have. I had loved unreservedly even though I knew I would receive the short shrift . I did not expect anything except to love and be loved. I thought he was different from the others but I could not be more wrong. He said so himself that he was just like the rest. Oh wait......perhaps he was different. I have allowed him to hurt me more than any other person I had known.

I can forgive him. It might not have been his fault. It was just a part of his character that I did not see. To throw someone under the bus when the situation becomes challenging. To be the friend who climbs the tree when the bear draws near. Survival of the fittest. I just cannot forgive myself for plunging into him hook, line and sinker. How could I have been so blind?

In all that 3 years, I truly believed he loved me. That I was the best thing to have happened to him. That I had given him confidence; a fresh perspective on  life and love. That I was his rai-son d'etre. That we were soul mates. But it all ended overnight............in a deafening silence that left me gasping.

I do not know how to live with myself now. The shock from the sudden loss will stoically pan out. It has to. The hurt will always be there but I am hoping it will dull with time. It is coping with the misjudgement and misplaced faith that will haunt me forever.

There are nights I lay awake, conflicted between the memories and reality. There are moments I cannot tell the difference between the shower and my own hot tears. I have lost count the number of times I agonise over how someone can turn his back on you in the span of one night? What happened to that connection we had? Where is the humanity I fell in love with?

Who is the real you?

I have no answers. I just know I can never be the same again. I really thought he loved me.

Hands

We reach for each other's hands; folding over lightly, fingers snugly woven and palms moulding with familiarity yet a newness of touch every time. To have and to hold; each thud of the heart is felt through this single touch.

Parting is such sweet sorrow

I look forward to each meeting but invariably become a little despondent when it's time to part.  There is still this nuanced thought, this deep-seated reflection that has taken root in my mind, this sudden burst of creativity  that I might want to share with him. There is so much more to me......so much but so little time.

Rationally, I know we will always meet up again but it is not so easy.  With our schedules, I can't just say "let's meet for coffee now" or "I want to see you; meet in half an hour"....a luxury people take for granted is a privilege for me.

If I could, I would say to Shakespeare that parting is not such sweet sorrow. It might seem like sweet sorrow to Romeo and Juliet because the only thing standing between them was their families' enmity. They were free to pledge undying and everlasting love to each other "Tis but thy name that is my enemy" (Act 2, Scene 2) but ancient bloodshed and family feuds are not at play here. Reality is.

We treasure the time together; even if it's only for an hour, even if it's to steal a quick 5-minute reprieve to hear each other's voices. We do not expect much except to always be each other's confidantes. To be consistent and not frivolous; to be there even when the whole world isn't; to always believe and cherish.

I just wish there were more than 24 hours in a day. 

Love at 85

An 85-year-old Spanish duchess is willing to give away her fortune to marry a man 24 years younger. She is said to be worth between $856 million to $5 billion and then some. Wow.  

Firstly, to be in love at 85 years old is a feat not many people can attest to. To be able to still feel that spark and illumination of love at that age..........Okay, maybe I'm not qualified to say anything because I'm not 85 yet. But I believe I might not be so lucky to find someone 24 years younger who would marry me at that age. And oh yes, I'm not a duchess. So there.

Having said that, I do believe in love. I believe love can hit you at 12, 18, 24, 33, 43, 56 or 85. Besides looking like a string of lottery numbers, these beautiful digits remind me that love happens regardless of age or stage of life you're at. It can happen when you least expect it; when you think you're done with love and all the idiosyncrasies of being in love.

I was not looking for anything but it happened. He came along and made me see the world in a totally new perspective. We are as different as chalk and cheese; yet so similar we seem connected at many varied levels. We just have to look at each other and know what the other person is thinking: whether serious, sad, happy or naughty thoughts. We finish each other's sentences or type in the same text messages simultaneously. We can sense each other's moods even through these messages. Sometimes words can be redundant when you read minds that way.

It's uncanny but it feels privileged to be so in tune with someone in this big, wide world. Of course, we have our moments too. Moments when you just want to swat the person's behind properly. I call it the "Uggghhh-moment". But you know what? I would rather have Uggghhh-moments with him than anything else with another person.

I do not know where this will lead us. It seems silly to know perhaps that it will never lead anywhere. But one thing for sure, we're loved right now and that's all that matters. I just wish I can be like the duchess at 85, with or without the fortune.

Sealed with a Kiss

We were in the fitting room together on Friday. No, we did not sneak in there for a quick romp. It was for a serious business of trying on belts. His.

The proximity made me flush. Or perhaps the action of him taking off and trying on the various belts inevitably reminded me of something more lascivious. I tried to be as focused on the belts as possible. It was difficult, I must confess.

He looked good. With or without belts. And with any kind of belts. The decision was made. We would take the black one. As I stood to go,  he hugged me. We held on in that fitting room surrounded by full-panelled mirror, bright lights and many belts. When we broke apart, a minute later, he kissed me lightly on the forehead. It was at that moment I realised how much I meant to him. To be kissed on the forehead by someone you love is possibly the sweetest kiss ever. A trawl through cyberspace revealed this cute comment which rings true for me in every sense.

"a kiss on forehead means-----i love you...i care for you....no one can harm you as long as I'm alive.....and iam there for you always!!!!!!!............ This kiss shows true care from the bootom of the heart...and it's very very very very lucky to get a kiss on forhead by sumone....especially ur loved one,,,.....it's like............wowz."

Exactly my sentiments. Yes, I felt loved, respected, protected and very, very cherished. We have had our romantic moments but this simple gesture in that tiny fitting room conveyed so much more. 

I would love him for the rest of my life.

Ice-Cream

An ice-cream shared on a crisp wafer dish last Friday made me so happy and  loved. Sweet, cold, creamy, promising. Decadent even. Yes, definitely loved.

It was a stolen moment we shared after a feel-good movie. Stolen because we were supposed to watch those calories after having indulged too much on other stuff. Also stolen, because I hadn't completely got over my cough but I wasn't about to confess it to him at that time!

We dug into our respective flavours stoically; even devouring the toppings and whipped cream with much aplomb. I loved the Chocolate Fudge Brownie (my all-time favourite), Chunky Monkey (his choice!) and Coffee Coffee Buzz Buzz Buzz (both of us are coffee addicts). Sharing that wafer dish with him was an incredible experience. It tasted  mainly sweet, a little acidic, a tinge of bitterness and a whole lot of crunchiness. And I have not even started describing the taste of the ice-cream yet!

Of course, the three wonderfully sensuous scoops were nothing short of delight. Once past the lips, it slides itself smoothly down your throat, but not before seducing your tongue with its flavourful coolness. It makes you want to lick your lips for that wayward remaining dollop of heaven;  to savour the lust at first scoop all over again. And to repeat that near-climax experience everytime you allow the rich creamy concoction through your lips, tongue, roof of the mouth, throat and even your esophagus; right down to the pit of your tummy. It's been said that eating ice-cream is almost a religious experience. How true.

I will never forget how we shared our wafer dish. We ate if off our fingers. He held it out for me to take dainty bites. But I was no dainty damsel so it was as huge bites as I could muster; much to his chastisement of 'Your hair! Your hair!' It was then a haphazard re-arrangement of my fringe before I could continue my indulgence.If only he could hold up my hair as well..........that would have been so romantic.

I loved it. I loved eating ice-cream with him. I loved him so much then.