UNFATED LOVE

Outside, the city is bustling with the daily grime and noise. But here, in my solitude, silence reigns, broken only by the scratching pen on an empty white sheet. I am Sharkey, the unknown poet, and tonight, as every night since Selma left, I am starving. It’s a hunger unlike any other. Not for bread, nor wine, nor the warmth of a fire. This hunger gnaws from the inside, a hollow ache that settles deep in my bones. It’s a hunger for Selma. Each day that begins and ends, and I’m not in her presence, I go to bed hungry, so I can dream all night and hunger for her.

Without the sight of her, the sound of her voice, the alluring scent, and sunshine that clung to her skin, the world felt diminished, hollow. Food was tasteless, music was noise, and the city lights just seemed like a cruel mockery of the warmth she provided. Each time she smiled, the world seemed to shimmer with possibility. Hope blossomed, every single color, every single ray of light, originated from her. The poem’s form, clumsy and inadequate, is a pale imitation of the emotion that claws and torments my heart. I try to capture the way her hair used to cascade down her back, dancing in the breeze. I try to describe the way her laughter could chase away the darkest of my moods. But words fail me. They are lifeless things compared to the vibrant essence of her.

Selma understood my poems. She’d trace the lines of each poem with her fingertips, her eyes lighting up as she murmured, “Beautiful, Sharkey. Beautiful.” And in those moments, I believed that she felt it too, this aching, desperate longing that consumed me. I remember the feel of her lips on mine. Her kiss was a storm, a gentle rain that washed away the dust and grime of the world. The tears that trickle down my face are not of sadness alone but of a desperate, futile hope. Each drop is a tiny envoy, carrying a silent message of yearning back to her, wherever she may be. Perhaps she is with another, bathed in a sunshine that is not mine to share. But I can not help myself. I am a moth drawn to a flame, forever circling the memory of her warmth.

Before Selma, my life was a barren field, draped in shades of sorrow. Then she arrived, like a sudden burst of colored roses that painted a garden in hues I never knew existed. I remember the first time I kissed her. It was a rainy afternoon, the kind that usually filled me with a melancholic dread. We were huddled under the awning of a bookstore. The world dissolved around me. The rain stopped, the city sounds faded, and all that remained was the taste of her, the warmth of her breath, the feeling of her hand gently cupping my cheek. Tears streamed down my face, a release of pent-up emotion, of years of loneliness and longing. I felt a profound sense of gratitude that someone like Selma could exist, that she could be here, kissing me, under a rain-soaked awning. The weeks and months that followed that first kiss, we explored the city together, hand in hand, discovering hidden cafes and forgotten parks. I wrote poems for her sonnets filled with metaphors of starlight and roses, odes to her laughter, and she, in turn, filled my life with light, with laughter, with a sense of belonging I had never known before. But even in the brightest rainbows, there are shadows. I was so consumed by my love for her, by my desperate need to hold onto this perfect, fragile thing, that I failed to see the reality of the situation.

Selma was a free spirit, a wanderer, a creature of the wind. I, on the other hand, was rooted, grounded, and content to stay in one place, surrounded by my books and my words. I wanted to build a home with her, a sanctuary filled with shared memories and whispered promises. She wanted something else. The change was gradual at first. She started spending more time away, traveling to other cities, attending art exhibitions, and meeting new people. Her visits became shorter, her letters less frequent. The light in her beautiful smile started to fade, replaced by a dullness, and it caused a persistent ache in my chest. Then came the day she told me. A day that was cloudy with unspoken words, with a tension that felt almost unbearable.

“Sharkey,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “I can’t do this anymore.”

The words hit me like a physical blow. I felt the blood drain from my face, my vision blurring. “What do you mean?”

She took a deep breath, her eyes filled with a mixture of sadness and resolve. “I care about you, Sharkey. I really do. But I’m not in love with you. Not the way you’re in love with me.”

The silence that followed was deafening. I stared at her, numb and disbelieving. It was as if the world had tilted on its axis, throwing everything I thought I knew into chaos.

“I need to be free, Sharkey,” she continued. “I need to explore, to experience new things, to find my path. I can’t do that here, with you.”

And just like that, she was gone. She packed her bags, said a brief, polite goodbye, and walked out of my life, leaving me standing there, surrounded by the ghosts of our shared moments. Now my world is a paradox, once a dazzling array of rainbows, all created from her beautiful smile, has diminished. The rainbow of my life has faded, leaving behind threatening clouds. The ink stains on my fingers are a bitter reminder of what I’ve lost. I still write poems, but they are different now. They are filled with sorrow, with regret, with the aching emptiness of a love that has been lost. I still go to bed hungry, hoping to dream of her. But the dreams are different now, too. They are haunted by the memory of her touch, by the sound of her laughter, by the agonizing realization that she will never be mine again.

Selma was my muse, my inspiration, the catalyst for some of the most beautiful words I have ever written. But she was also my heartbreak, the source of a pain that I fear will never truly heal. And yet, even amid this pain, there is a flicker of gratitude. I am grateful for the time we had together, for the light she brought into my life, for the poems she inspired. I am grateful for the fact that I was able to experience such a profound love, even if it was ultimately doomed to end. Perhaps, someday, the rainbows will return, and I will find a new muse, a new inspiration. But even if that never happens, I will always have the poems, the memories, the echoes of Selma’s laughter in my heart. In those echoes, I will find a small measure of solace, a reminder that even in the darkest of times, there is still beauty to be found.

Tonight, as I close my eyes, I will dream of Selma. I will dream of her smile, her touch, the sound of her laughter. I will feast on these phantom sensations, trying to satiate the hunger that devours me. And as I drift into sleep, I will whisper her name, sending a kiss adrift on the river of my tears, praying that someday, somehow, it will reach her.

I finished another poem. It is a poor substitute for her presence. I blow out the candle, plunging my surroundings deeper into darkness.