The Red String
You were once the martyr.
And I the taker.
The wind was howling the night you visited me - the dream was repugnant until you came into the picture. You told me a story about two girls with a rare connection. A swipe of blood on one, and the same Crimson on the other. The girl in red had the pureness of you face. Eyes that twinkled wisdom beneath her lashes, she was a mirror of you. And the latter was a lot like me... a lot like me a lucky man to hold your warm gazes. But in the dream, you stayed unmoving as if wanting to hold your place. You continued with the story, proclaiming conflicts in a soft voice, full of empathy and silent sobs. The blood remained as an evidence of the link engraved to both the characters soul. It was magical, horrific - but magical.
It was the same connection like ours.
Now, let me tell you a story how we were indestructible-how I was willing to give you everything I had, every part of my soul, even the broken pieces. It was hardcore. I couldn't remember falling like I did but I still wondered if we're standing in the same memory. We celebrated friendship in its simplicity - no rituals, no conditions, no nothing and survived with even hugs and kisses. The wind continued blowing harshly in my dreams when I vomited the color of ugly sonnets existing between the line that divided us. Us. We spoke of indefinite individuality but we're one. Two as one.
It was indeed magical.
We conversed easily like puffing air out of our lungs, exchanging words like trading breads. It was a necessity and we couldn't survive without it. Every missed opportunity felt like slipping deaths between out fingertips. You knew ne wholly, even my untold flaws and deepest scars. And I did cry because you understood. I cried and you said I'd got the best beating heart in the world.
And when we kissed - it was metaphorical.
We fell apart, gradually. It was bound to happen. It was just a matter of time before we exchanged sweet nothing for the last moment. But the world was small, indeed. As much as you told me to connect to the world, there was one sole reason why I couldn't do it. You see, you're my own universe. So, I hoped for the 'to be continued' in our story without second guesses, without doubt that it wouldn't happen because it would. The invisible threads were the stronger ties. And ours were the strongest when stretched and tangled.
But every hello had its own story of farewells. And mine came like a bullet train with the finest wheels. It was my second death. The realization of your power to break me, slow and easy, made me teary. Before I closed my eyes, I read what you had written in an old parchment crumpled against my palm.
"saudade (abstract noun) - is a unique Portuguese that has no immediate translation in English; saudade describes a deep emotional state of nostalgic longing for an absent of something or someone that one loves; saudade was once described as 'the love that remains' after someone is gone; saudade is the recollection of feelings, experiences, places or events that once brought excitement, pleasure, well-being, which now triggers the senses and makes one live again"
The letter made excuses so paperthin. And so I lived again.
Soon the time would come when the world would finally understand. I lived because I chose to re-connect with you - to also have the power to create us, slow and easy, and ignite the fire burning as hot as the pits of hell. I lived because I still wanted us to be magical. But if I would perish before it happened, I promised to never forget the thread tied between our pinky fingers - never ever forget the face of you and the camlness that came with it.
Even if I had only saw it on my dreams.
But if I did forget, send me away with the words of a love song.
The red string of fate
An invisible red thread connects those who are destined to meet, regardless of time, place, or circumstance. The Thread may stretch or tangle, but it will never break.
© 2017 Longmire