More On Glance
i really wanted to look her in the eyes and analyse her face for good this time. but I was tentative even to look; satiated with a small glance which was always met with a reluctant, half-hearted smile.
she hated when I looked at her. and I knew because her eyes would sort of widen and look away to the side; the gesture itself a negation of everything i was feeling, and, like a four-pronged fork jabbed into my own heart, it hurt so fucking bad.
everything we’d felt in the past seemed impossible, almost non-existent— save for the fact that, after binding ourselves together in white sheets, our eyes continued to meet— only in glances, nothing like the first.
it spoke deeper than lust (on my part), or regret (on hers), in the sense that it was tainted with a certain amount of toxicity, and a knowingness that each brief glance was both inapt and undesirable. the inaptitude always, somehow, falling into my own window of actions— as if i was a child breaking the unwritten ‘rules of love.’
then came the corridors of love, which always smelt of longing and fear, all intermingled— like a gross concoction of my own humiliation and affection; slowly stewing; always brewing; brimming with excitement; reeking of confusion and sadness.
in the corridors of love we’d be in each other’s presence— the same vicinity of old brick university castle walls, and contemporary glass libraries, where sharp, angular, interior edges were symbiotically married with a 350 year-old frame; a type of Swedish architectural ingenuity, all perfectly, organically, merging as one.
if we ever walked past each other in the corridors of love, we would both kind of whisper ‘hey’, then change direction— even if it meant a longer route home.
and, in my fast paced walk in the cool of the night, the icy wind would graze the skin on my face, and cause my eyes to dry and water. how my throat would swell and i’d want to puke and cry and hug her and love her, all at the same time. but i had nothing to grip, no one to touch; just a constant, uncertain, ongoing flux.
i was wading, like through honey, through something thick, picking up my feet from the thigh each time. every movement felt slow and languorous, but somehow the pain, the lack of mutuality, gave me more incentive to keep going, to keep looking.
with each step, it seemed, i was birthing new feelings of lost hope;
like, for example, how, when she sat behind me in class, her presence would linger in the back of my mind— like her smell on my pillow or her clothes on my floor— making me think of all the possibilities; what if, what if, what if…
one day when she sat behind me, and when i couldn’t not look anymore, i went home and i cried and i cried and i cried, until i was empty, until i was dry. curled up on the floor, head in my hands, like a foetus, i was a child, and apparently i’d broken ‘the rules of love.’ i was like a parasite, and she was the host— except she was the one thriving; on my own discomfort, in every side glance.
and in every side glance, i think i was searching for closure. some sort of last supper where all would be reconciled but,
remember that time we found ourselves on the same 20:30 train on a Friday night, heading to Malmö? you took the south exit and i took the north— i guess we would both be heading in opposite directions.