The problem is not that the call goes unanswered.
The problem is that the answer sounds nothing like what these horse feathers have had me wanting to hear.
Cupid ran out of arrows and shot only one person instead of two, and now this אהבה נכזבת is my resident alien, twisted by that lost arrow here in the bullseye of its target. This discomfiture deluging through me belies the lineal comfort that we’ve shared, and in the TV show of my mind, commercial breaks save me from your unfixed ald… So I don’t know what you smell like and I don’t know how I got here.
My imagined interpretation sees my soul dance happy in the good space of this lie until I acknowledge the truth and suddenly I have to count patterns along the horizon’s city of glass. But the suspicion that this reason is proper is the only captive infatuation I have to hold, because it is just ēkataraphā pyāra after all… and who dares deny that this is true, but you? (And you, and you… and you?)
The unpretentious honesty that you allege to be uncomplicated is a quality my decades haven’t yet allowed me to master. ‘It takes a man to suffer ignorance and smile, be yourself no matter what they say.’ But this be yourself is expensive, because even through the brevity and defiant nerve, amor não correspondido will always be the blueprint for how we gladly feast on those who would subdue us.
So Cupid ran out of arrows, shot only one person instead of two and here in the bullseye is where this unerwiderte Liebe finds its pulse. Should I hunt for a stronger gene within me over willing you to find different ones in you, and end the imagined interpretation that sees my soul dance happy in the good space of this lie? Yes… because I don’t know what you smell like and I don’t know how I got here.
The problem with unrequited love – no matter what language you live it in – is not that the call goes unanswered. The problem is that the answer sounds nothing like what you’ve been wanting to hear.
© Dylan Balkind