My Life and Breath

My life and breath,

I have a lot of things to say this February 15th. Like a lot, a lot, and yet I'm sitting here stumbling and stuttering over thoughts --way before they can ever become words on my tongue.

It's not like that's new. You have no idea, do you? Duh. You couldn't, of course, because I didn't develop the courage to tell you when I had the chance. In the end, its my own darn fault, but there's always the 'if only'.

If only he would've noticed. If only he felt compelled to say the same words I wished to tell to him.

If only, if only, if only.

But everyone knows 'your thing' is that you can't notice cues, regardless of how obvious it is-- how obvious I am. I remember that well. We all do. Your lovely sister. Your sweet, sweet mother. That squad of yours who could never stop talking? Even they noticed that. They noticed me and how I went 'coo-coo' in your presence; a peasant before her king. They'll never live it down, in fact.

And somehow I loved it about you. Your blank, clueless expressions had an effect on me I can't pretend wasn't there. I wish I could hate it. Hate it so much that I could've cast a spell on it and it'd vanish into thin air, because being the shy, ashamed, self-conscious, socially awkward ball of chaos person I've always been, we were bound to be 'passing throughs' rather than 'meant to bes'.

I know. It stings to this day.

Why? Why must I be the very epitome of 'clumsy'? Why is it that beneath the palm trees on a sunny day, there you stood, and I hit a new level of 'all over the place'? Why did you have this power over me that made me fail to keep still? Why is that feeling stubbornly zipped up in my chest until now?

I still don't know what it was. If it was the hint of salt that you constantly had lingering on your skin from the times I had to physically pull you out of the ocean because you'd refused to leave. If it was how you'd tell me to 'hold you tighter' on our motorcycle rides beneath the cloudy skies before you sped up or turned a corner. I don't know if it was your obsession over mango smoothies, or your random late night rants about craving halo-halo on the weeks you spent the night. I don't know if it was our movie nights and popcorn chomping, or your repeated failures to eat with chopsticks and then your determination to get it right (but still to no avail). The time you scolded me over injuring myself and bandaged up my wounds? The way you poured yourself into love stories and long lost poetry? Your vulnerableness? Your openness? Your gentleness? Your positivity? Your grace?

Your everything?

I guess it's a mystery I'm not meant to know. I was lit on fire without a flame and it burned and burned and burned in the depths of my heart and the pit of my stomach and its root, its cause, is forever unknown. I have no hope to rely on. I have no made-up reassurances to think. I have no grasp on the possibility of a future. Our future.

You're gone. You're dead. You passed away. It's been a year today and I've still barely been able to scratch the surface of comprehending it.

I want to say I moved on, but I'm aware that I haven't. I can act like it mostly. I can act like it until that one song comes on the radio when I'm at work, and mocks me with every beat until I'm two inches tall. Until I fall over in the cologne aisle in sobs because I coincidentally inhaled the one you wore, becoming a laughing stock to the people who tiptoe around me. Facebook will taunt me with memories every once in a while too, and suddenly there's your face, glowing back at me at 2 am, with no heartbeat to accompany it.

What would we be talking about right now if we could be? The new Spiderman? Complaining over our own dumb choices to drink coffee at 8 pm only to wonder why we can't fall asleep? Begging for help over my college courses because you were always the smart one?

Could I be saying I love you?

I don't know.

All I know is my world is dark and my lungs are empty.

Please bring back my life and breath.

Please bring back you.