A Love Misplaced

I feel out of place. Something is missing. Much is missing. The way he looked at me, at her, with love in his eyes. His tender touch of every centimetre of my skin, her skin, including folds and deeper places. He even felt my love for him via my feet, her feet. But there is nothing I can do. I am not in control. She is. Anthi Papageorgis. Yes; she is Greek. I sometimes feel Athena in her veins. I am just her love for him. But I can think for myself. I disagreed when she let him go. But I am only her love for him. She moved me aside. She had better things to do. What is better than love? Anthi did not love him anymore or not as much as at the beginning.

The beginning is almost always better than the end. The end is almost always better than the beginning. Which is it? Both. Not at the same time, of course. He loved me, her, more than anything else on Earth and the rest of the Cosmos. He still does. I just know it. Some loves endure beyond measure. I still love him too, but I am just her love for him. We were separated by her soul. It is what she would probably say. They were separated by time. It is as simple as that. It is at least what we think, him and her love for him. He had time to spare. She had very little time, for him. I often cried for him. But how could I tell him? What would it change?

Being still in love with him, I can feel that he is still in love with me, with her. It is unfortunate for him, for us, for them, that I cannot contact him to tell him that her love is still in love with him. It could be half a consolation for him, for us, or a smaller part of one. One could think that she is something. She is so much more. He already knew it from her written words; long before they met. He flew for half a day all the way to Greece; twice. The first time, to see her, face to face, and finally touch her after a number of months online, almost licking his iMac screen and watching her sleep; the second time, to see her and never leave.

They were in love, with each other, for a number of months, but her love for him, before it became separate, before it became me, began to dissipate like the smoke of an e-cigarette. He proposed marriage to her more times than the total sum of her fingers and toes. No, with a smile or a cute laugh, was always her reply. Did he love her too much? Did she love him too little? Time was their enemy from the start; timing too, if there is such a thing. The Cosmos does not care about lost love. I feel misplaced without him, but she does not know. How can she, when her mind placed him below everything? I, Anthi's love for him, still love him. I hope that he feels me.

Tell him, Anthi*

I love you still

M's synanthy

Ever free will

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* Anthi also means "flower" and "blossom" in Greek.

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