He came back to haunt me

It was his vague passage in my life that taught me the precipices of depression. How a man with eagerness for adventure could be destroyed by his very own escapades. Not because he wasn’t strong enough to face the ordeals of living on the brink of conflict zones but because internalising what he saw was nothing he could have anticipated. Or desired really; who initially knows what they’re getting into before they jump?

Here was the key to our spark. Wanting to nurture the pain he bore and as a hopeless romantic I delved into being superwoman. I obviously failed because the course of our encounter ended in one, brief phone call.

I was tempered with his need for reassurance, his need to follow my moves and pin point which ones weren’t under his moral woos. The despair of not finding the courage to face the drama and its consequences lead me elsewhere. Not a new path but a continuance of what I knew best; my way.

This endued walks within the later hours of the day, in and out of waken consciousness, for the tastes which tickled my urges where wet with liquor and its own urges. Tranquillity solely accompanied the phased out moments during which I treaded on shallow waters, they weren’t realism; they were delusion.

Yet this delusion exposed me to another game; a male’s passport to infringe the female gaze. For as tempered as I had been, naivety seldom left my veins. I got carried away by the subliminal messages I in turn converted into what appropriated me; or even what could quench the thirst of my dreaming moments.

In love you cannot call it. Nor could you say there was any rationality for the obsessive recording of the facts. The loose screws were perhaps why my armour could not hold it together.

“Words are the last thing on the list”. Whatever moved us to sway on the same frequency was based on trial and consequently error. I had no say in this trial, of course. That would have shied the game from having any conviction.