Whispering Ending Love

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Love not only dies. Love agonizes and suffers. Love is like a living creature. It's born, it grows, it matures, and it dies. My love for you has died. Somehow. My romantic love for you has died. I love you as a friend. In the process, I tried to love you the best I could. Despite the red flags, despite my desire to communicate, despite the fact that I don't think you get much of who I really am. But who am I, anyhow? I don't even know. I tried loving you despite our opposing viewpoints in life, in tango. There was this you that I could see that I loved. But I guess the love that was born between the two of us wasn't strong enough (I don't even know if love is supposed to be strong enough) to last more than what it did. It actually lasted for quite a while. Some people might say too long. I've grown with you. I am thankful for the love that was born out of your soul for me. The love that really cared. Not the paternalistic love. But the pure love that I, sometimes, saw in you. The love that you offered me. Love dies. Love is born. The pain is gone. I just feel a very empty space growing and growing within me. The phone doesn't ring. The hours are silent and quiet. My body is getting used to the idea of being alone. It's this sort of peace that one embraces after they say goodbye. It's like seeing someone from your family for the last time at an airport. You know that feeling is going to be unique and painful for as long you live. Then, I emerge into questions and thoughts. My mind whispers: I was a doll for you. To you. With you. I was your arm candy. This notion in itself disgusts me. I am no arm candy. I am a woman to be loved inside and out. That's what makes or gives love, real love, a possibility, a chance to flourish. You can't just love the image. Maybe you can. I know I can't just love an image. My love doesn't grow solely on image. These love types die. They have a very short life because their souls are just inflated plastic baloons that decorate a room, but don't saciate your spirit.

So, I whispered my ending love to you in Portuguese. The language that was born with me. I wondered: how come this can be this good, and yet I have to let you go? Why? And then the sound of my voice dissipated into the absence of love. Because there's no voice heard in the desert of a dying love.

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