I walk around infatuated with the idea that I almost had you.

That we could’ve been much more than an unfinished manuscript. That you could’ve been much more than a silent Muse. That I could’ve been much more than a hopelessly lost poet who takes shelter in words. That one day, I’ll teach myself the language of letting go. That one day, I’ll come to understand that love and melancholy aren’t necessarily bound to one another.

But now, let me tell you that I utterly failed.

I couldn’t unlove you. I couldn’t learn the language of moving on, so I started learning Norwegian instead. My friends wonder why Norwegian, and I tell them: “It sounds peaceful. It feels so tenderly peaceful.” But it’s you I mean, certainly not Norwegian. I start with the feelings, how to tell someone you miss them, and how to speak of embraces, of first kisses, and of hands.

Love, young love, I still bear the scars of your sudden departure. I’m not quite ready to heal, and my heart is still susceptible to pain. Love, young love, I know not where you intend to go from here, but I do know this for certain: the same sky keeps us in reach, and in a poem, we shall meet again, you and I. You will throw casual remarks about the weather, and I will tell you that I’ve been learning new languages.

Love, kindling love, one day when your wars are over, you will come back, with unanswered questions hovering around, and a skeptical look on your face, you’ll want to speak to me of torture, of blood, of fear. I’ll bring myself to understand, to speak your language, to rebuild the bridge you injudiciously demolished one night. Love, dearest love, I’m trying. I’m trying to reopen the windows, to let the splinters of light in, but it’s winter; those are very rare, and I’m damaged, beyond repair. Damaged, broken, and heavy.

Skadet. Ødelagt, tungt.

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