You Will Never Know

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I could write a hundred poems for you; insert the new words in my vocabulary in and commit my heart onto it. But it won’t matter at all, because you will have no slightest idea who wrote it. You will probably see my initials, but you will never know it was I –who stayed up late at night to come up with concepts as sweet as chocolates, who fought my way through deep into my heart to dig out the crumbs of loneliness without flinching a bit, until there’s nothing melancholic left to say. You will never know, because I guess you have no idea that I like writing this much.

I could write songs about and for you. And probably sing it you; whether on stage at our most drunken nights, or under the sunlight at the beach. But it won’t matter at all, because you will never know that it is about you. And that I spent two weeks going out, craving for fresh air to come up with a unique melody, to calm myself down everytime I think about you so I could avoid exaggerating. You will probably see me singing it, but you will never know that I am singing to you. You will never know, because I guess you have no idea that I write songs too.

I could draw your face on the empty pages on my notebook, or save an illustration on my computer. But it won’t matter at all, because I won’t leave a watermark on it. You will never know that I drew it, because I will never show it off to anyone. You will never know, because you probably have no idea that I memorize your face –from the way your hair falls to the right side of your head, your eyes that were perfectly made to enjoy sunsets and to freeze and melt me at the same time, your nose that makes your voice funny when pitched high, your shallow philtrum, your cerise-colored lips, your sly mouth, and the smirk it shapes when you’re confidently talking about something, to your lucid smile. And your familiar laugh on my silly jokes (wish I could draw it too). But you will never know, because you probably got no hint that I can draw.

You will never know since you haven’t seen the rest of me; because I’ve hidden it somewhere to me is extraterrestrial, where I name my own stars, planets and satellites light years away. Because I simply refuse to show it to you –or to anyone at all. You will never see my soul through my eyes since it’s as dark as they are. You will never know how anxious I get when I’m alone with you if you never touch my trembling hands in my pockets. You will never know that I have a hard time sleeping every damn night if you never try to text me at 2AM. You will never know how obsessive I could get. Just like this.

You will never even know that this post is about you. You will never know that I like you enough to involuntarily and free-willingly do everything I mentioned. You will never know because I will never tell you. You will never know anything I keep under this thick hair and skin.

Never.

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