God, Damn it

It’s your fault.

Because in the middle of so many words written exclusively for you, I, fully aware of my ability to move forward without hurting myself over opposing positions, kept the contact alive. Even though it was different, it did not kill the emotional bond that had once been created.

My intention was never to cause a fleeting, meaningless feeling. Something worthy of a random weekend or a Friday night of drinks.

I never looked at you as a woman with whom I could even consider taking half a step forward that involved the two of us.

Why?

Because we are oil and water. We do not mix.

I value calm in everything with a slight touch of madness.
You are the opposite, spontaneity with a subtle trace of prudence. That is your essence.

But I created an image of you.
An image that does not exist.
The pseudo version of my Inês.

The girl woman who cries when she realizes she messed up. Who crucifies herself with and without reason. Who does not think twice when she should think three times, for better and for worse. Who wants more than anything to be heard, yet does not feel heard even being sometimes the loudest in the room. Who loves her own company but does not truly like herself.

An explosion of joy when surrounded by people who can steal a sincere laugh from her, which can quickly turn into an avalanche of distance. Because she distances herself. The body does not lie. The big brown eyes stop paying attention and focus on everything and nothing at the same time.

A person with an immense ability to listen to others without judging. Sometimes without even questioning. Always trying to understand. Everyone except herself.

Blind. Blind to masked intentions. To promises never fulfilled and never compensated for.

Maybe the perfect antithesis between someone who moves forward and someone who lives in the past.

It is too simple. Opposite sexes. Different worlds. Different lives. Maybe different dreams, although on that last point we share more than a few.

You are this person, a tumble of emotions and actions that no matter how inexplicable they seem have explanations only you know but never say.

This should be an article. But this one stays with me.

The article about your birthday might be too intimate for you to read, yet its line of thought is crystal clear.

Going back to the beginning, the fact that I fell for your ridiculous charm, the kind that would not enchant any intelligent man, is your fault and only yours. How could I even consider feeling something for you, you who are capable of talking to another guy while being with me. I do not know. Witchcraft. I doubt it. But if it were, I would not be surprised.

I say this because I created barriers that do not allow me to take actions that leave me in a bad place. If I feel that I give more and receive less than I deserve, I walk away.

But the truth is, what we exchanged was friendship. It was.

Yet those daily calls, those laughs, the late night confessions, the moments we spent together, and the fact that I feel happy when I see you smiling, means something.

You are stupid, because if you liked yourself you would slap me twice for calling you names and stay with me for seeing you as you are. Arrogant. Maybe. But I bet no other guy knows you the way I do.

I do not love you. I am not in love. For you there is only fascination.

Fascination with you being a complete package of imperfection that, in my eyes, has exactly the right edges I could smooth out with time, edges you would only have to let me smooth. I think.

You are the most unique person I have ever met. You scare me sometimes. You are completely crazy. But I think I would like to be a little crazier. If it were with you, even better.

Because in the middle of so much normality, you are the most rational anormality I could ever have.