I didn't want to count.
"What's the point"— that's what I've been telling myself, ever since. Days turned to weeks turned to months turned to a whole year and it didn't stop there, as much as I wanted it to. But suddenly it's sixteen. It reached sixteen, to be more accurate. Sixteen months of no us, of separation, of parting these two poor twin flames. Unavoidable, foreshadowed, destined, expected — there was no other option but this. The prophecy has been foretold from the beginning of time. One of us had to run. We both did, but he did a better job, and so he's still gone.
It's full moon today, the anniversary of his last chaotic day back at work, poetically, so the emotions are running high. Dangerously high. But I learned to ride them, I had to, because it's in my blood, having been born under a full moon anyway, and a spiritual awakening will make sure to teach you how to drift on treacherous waters. But the alarm is blaring, the siren has been going off in my head all day today and it kept getting worse as the moon was rising. It's deafening now and I'm scared, as always. My head feels like it's splitting in half, and at the same time the pull is too strong, towards him. Yet again. Still. The energy between us is the curse that has been pulling us towards and then away from each other, and the worst part is that it's the one thing I can't escape. It's a curse because if my nervous system is my most protected treasure, then he is the thief who has been coming every other week, manoeuvring through red laser lines, not even getting too close but just enough to sound the alarms, and disturb my peace. And he is a thief for many other reasons — stealing my old life from me, my avoidance, my fears, my beliefs, my acceptance, my heart. Stealing what I thought was mine but actually wasn't…
And now I feel like I'm going to be one of those tragic poets who have been writing about their "one true love" their whole lives, and the idea of that scares me more than anything, because the number of months is growing tranquilly, and my heart and soul still has him as its "one true something…". I'm not going to say the word, not today; the sirens are too loud today, I wouldn't hear it anyway. "But I have something to write about at least" — I'm telling myself, because it's true, and most poets must have found themselves in this same paradoxical situation, because funny enough, love — and most of all pain — is inspiring more than anything else. So maybe I should thank him for being committed to being gone. And that's a joke by itself because he is the epitome of a textbook avoidant, so commitment is not his greatest strength.
But I guess sixteen months is commitment in itself: commitment to staying away from me and consequently, us. Or trying, because he did try to come back in tiny, ridiculous ways. Never fully gone, because if I can't do it, he can't either. This is our tragedy, the tragedy of every twin flame couple in the world: the endless mirroring. The seemingly endless dance of two people who are too much alike. We are the same but not — one soul but two bodies, one soul but two egos, one soul but two separate minds, one soul and one love, but thousands of fears. One force driving us in every second, closer and closer to each other, but it's one step forward and two steps back. And as the full moon rises tonight, and my emotions are coming to the surface yet again, an innocent question awakens just as timidly: does he feel the same? Maybe it's not just me who knows the exact number of months, and not just me who's thinking of the 'what could have been', thinking of the last time his hands were on me but couldn't say what that meant, and so it's unfinished. This whole chaos between us feels incomplete and formless and faulty. No end in sight, and my ego is not happy about this.
Just a thief cloaked in black shuffling around in the night, coming for the treasure but knows when to stop and never to touch, because it's fragile. And so the mirror keeps mirroring; sixteen will turn to seventeen, inevitably, undoubtedly — it's a matter of fact at this point.
Full moons and new moons are coming and going, beginnings and endings in the sky, but there is still no resolution to our story, no homecoming in this song of ours, no wrap-up to this movie, no final cut. Countless messages and mistakes. Amateur production at best.
