Body Electric

Hey you,

I just moved in to a new place, 12 minutes away from my previous house in Bukit Serdang.

I wonder how at almost 30, I could still feel homesick and still dreading the coming of a new dawn. The anxiety of adapting to a new place brings lump to my throat and unnerves me. Uncertainties are no joke. It almost feels like sailing into the storm, not knowing what's in store on the horizon.

In my new room, I envisioned how this space could keep both me and you. This place is expensive as heck, but it's not the price that was steep. It was your presence that I could never afford.

I would imagine sneaking out of bed at night after you were asleep, to write another chapter or two of my latest novel. You would spring awake, wondering why my place next to yours was empty.

You would find me under this downlight on the dining table, eyes piercing through the monitor, so serious of my work I could get permanent wrinkles just by a little frowning.

"Why are you still up?" you would ask, perplexed still with my ambitions.

"Just a minute!" and just like that, you would embrace me from behind, chin resting on my head, eyeing the screen for a second and whisper "Don't be up too late!". 

I would feel a tingle of spark on my skin, creeping through my veins. You, your touch, your body, your whole existence - are all electric.

A cup of coffee would give me palpitations, just enough to last a few pages. When I got back to bed, you were already deep in slumber, and by God, I could swear you're so beautiful.

I would curse myself for having you because I don't feel deserving and I feel guilty that something as beautiful as you has to keep up with me. That having you by my side was a prelude to my tragedy, because nothing that beautiful could be kept without a cost.

I wanted that simple life with you, the simple mornings when we would have breakfast while we face each other, dreading the repetitiveness of our routine. I would talk and you would listen, and you would tell me that no, no way we could ever move away to somewhere foreign and start anew. This is our home.

I would pout a little, and you would ask me to finish drinking my coffee or else I'm going to be late to work.

I would never say sorry for anything, because we never say sorry and thanks to those we love. But whenever I wanted to apologise, I would touch your cheeks even though you would push away my hand as soon as you saw it moving, and you would pretend that you are mad at me. You would retaliate by poking at my waist until I scream for you to stop, and that would satisfy you so much I can see it in your slight smirk. 

These are all my selfish desires, and these simple, simple anecdotes of our life could only be lived out through my imagination. I would still miss your presence every single day of my life, and you won't even care if I still awake at 1:34 am, writing another blog entry about you while still hoping you are actually in that room, waiting for me to finish my work.

In the end, all that matters was what we remember; and that what we hoped for and what we had lost could never be a part of our lives anymore.