Grief

If you had never been, this feeling wouldn't have existed as it presents: raw, stubborn and sharp. If I hadn't known you, there would only have been a vague discomfort from the memory of a life unlived, perhaps less peaceful but infinitely open to the instincts: no names, no faces, only stories that disperse with a blink.

But you are, and so is the craving of your being, the longing for closing any distance that this lifetime created between us; you are, and so are the restless moments of detailed ideation, the thoughts so vivid and so shameful, when the soul is set free of the daily burdens. You are, and the beast awakens, ready to break the rules of what's right, what's good or what's necessary. You are, and, in that space, life is no longer ruled by the choices of reason, of the human who looks at me through the mirror.

The beast stomps within the borders of its prison. It knows of the pain, it's known for so long; it grieves a loss that never happened and yet is always there. Every hope to fulfill its needs brings it deeper and makes its prison smaller. It grieves every corner of your face, your name, your beast; it grieves every feeling born of primal belonging, it recognises its equal and craves the unreachable embrace, the culmen of the senses, forever dreaming of being unleashed.

If you weren't, I wouldn't have to battle the irreconcilable pain of not having you.