Four years ago today, I wrote my very first poem in French. It wasn't a masterpiece, not by any stretch. The lines were simple—modest in structure, unadorned in style. Yet, it still clung to me, like all firsts do. I remember, with singular clarity, the swell of pride that filled my breast upon finishing it. Just a year before that, I didn’t even know what mon ange meant—the term of endearment Chace used on me one time, when feelings were slowly developing from both of our sides.
To think that I—once so unfamiliar with his language, his world—could come to write a verse in it... not for him, not now. But because of him, perhaps. Or the ghost of who he was when he loved me.
après tout ce temps
c'est toujours toi
celui auquel je pense
à chaque fois
avant de m'endormir
et après mon réveil
j'entends toujours ta voix
dans mes oreilles
—mai 18, 2021
Back then, the idea of falling in love with someone else seemed to me so impossible. I believed, with youthful certainty, that I'd never find a connection as deep as what I felt with Chace. One would think he is my greatest love, especially since I still make mention of him in my writings. And it is true; I do often revisit those letters, those testaments to a fervour that once consumed me. But these writings, stained with pain and longing, filled with what seemed to be my undying devotion, now serve a different purpose.
They're now proof.
I share them not as declarations of continued longing, but as relics—evidence that what once felt eternal, is, in truth, mortal. For my heart no longer yearns and aches for the same person whom I thought I was going to love for eternity.
And in this proof lies a strange comfort. If I could move on from someone I once felt so deeply for, then, I can also move on from Johannes..
Indeed, it is a strange comfort, for a part of me doesn't want to move on... A huge part of me is scared of letting go.
But then, isn't that how I also felt with Chace before? And if we go farther back, for a time, how I also felt with Patch?
How curious it is—the heart’s pattern. The names alter, the faces fade, but the ache assumes the same hue..
A line from the same song I've been listening to ("Already Gone" by Sleeping At Last):
"You know that I love you so
I love you enough to let you go..."
Oh, but I do.. I do love him still. Unfortunately, the essence of the love in that line is foreign to me.
Because I love him so much that I hate him. And I hate him so much that I want him miserable. Sorry, but I’m not the kind of girl who says: “As long as you’re happy, that’s what matters.”
No.
They say kindness is strength. That wishing someone well is healing.
But I am not healed. And I do not wish him well.
He hurt me. And so I withdraw my softness. Let the world call me bitter, if they must. But I won’t waste sweetness on someone who watched me break and walked away.
I'm not going to send him positive thoughts. He should suffer.
Ah. I have yet again successfully managed to make another note about Chace, be about Johannes instead. Well, I am feeling quite generous and fair today, so hang Chace as well.
Hang them both.