Au Clair de Lune: Do You Miss Her, Too?

Gently now, cry softly and gently now. This is a world where one freely hates, loves and forgives. Soon, the hurting will end. It will always end. Fear not as weakness imprints its sallow face on your own face, let it creep even through your obstinate heart. Fret not as the vehement flames in your eyes become momentarily dampened by your tears, nor force the salty liquid to cease falling. But instead, taste the acridness and think it sweet. Taste it.

When she told you her story, did you not repeat it to me? When she uttered her lies, did you not pretend to know? When she confessed her love, did you not discern it to be truly so?

Yes, I miss her, too. Sometimes.

But it is useless to hope. You will see nothing left of what we once knew, gone are the remnants of a girl who moved like the wind. Today, she is but a ghost. An eerie breeze. Her smiles do not come easily anymore; now they are demure ones, vague ones that tell nothing. You will hear the sound of tinkling bells in her laugh but you will never hear anything real. It is always musical and pretty and meant to please everybody but herself. She never laughs loud now, and she never laughs hard. And all she can speak of is what is what is graceful, and what is appropriate, what is proper. She has to be perfect, you know.

A perfect porcelain of a girl, a bonsai tree which could have thrived toweringly and majestically with other trees in the forest but was really just meant to be small and pretty. They say it is her nature. To be someone perfect. Someone obedient.

Do you think she will never feel her tongue burning in want of true speech, speak words that are forbidden? Can she really have forgotten her loudmouth ways, do you remember when she used to speak her mind and scream but not care? Do her lips still tremble when she desires to speak out? Perhaps not. Or perhaps, she chooses silence for she fears the words that might come from her lips when she does open them. I want her to scream again. But all I can hear is silence.

I wish her head would spin and reel from hearing things she does not want to hear. Those things should be about what is graceful, what is appropriate, what is proper. That her heart stop for one moment, as she attempts to curb all the feelings welling inside her because she has no right to feel them. I hope she feels desperate. I hope she feels hopeless.

She used to tell stories that find its way repeated on other’s mouths. She used to utter untruths and people pretended not to know. She used to break promises. But it was okay, because she was happy as we were happy. And when she confessed her love, we all knew it to be truly so.

I used to believe in her. But she strangled me to keep alive. She buried me with all her hopes and dreams and desires. She had to hide me. She even thinks she has already killed me.

She had to be perfect.

So just cry softly and gently now. Don’t hold back the tears. Because the world is not lost to those who hate, love and forgive, but to those who are numb. Darkness hides the beauty of this world to those who do not feel. You don’t want to hide like me. Or like she does.

I will conceal myself until she comes to look for me. I will wait here in the depths of her very soul until she has courage enough to conjure me again. I miss her like you do. I miss her but I’m not sure if she misses me.

All I can hear inside her is I am happy I am I am I am.

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