When I look into your eyes
I can see a love restrained
But darlin' when I hold you
Don't you know I feel the same
'Cause nothin' lasts forever
And we both know hearts can change
And it's hard to hold a candle
In the cold November rain
Siren's Song
Sunday, November 23, 2003
mood: serene
music: Twist in My Sobriety - Tanita Tikaram
I saw the ring on his ring finger, yet he refrained from mentioning anything about his girlfriend. Not that he has to, but it'll be nice to hear how he's going on in that aspect of life. Alright, I admit I'm nosey. *pootz*
He hasn't changed much. Well, maybe a lil'. Just the wee bit, no more. The same tall, solid build. The same basketball player air about him. The same serious, I-know-an-amusing-thing-that-you-don't-that's-why-I'm-smiling-like-Mona-Lisa look.
I remember cheerleading (if you could call getting some two hundred odd fellow students to shout like synchronized puppets cheerleading) for his team. I remember watching in awe as he leaped into mid-air to dunk the ball. It's as though time froze for him each time he does that. It's swell. Seriously. But I can't tell him that, can I? It'll sound silly, and lame.
The short one hour or so that I just spent with him, updating each other on our current lives, felt as though we've grown old too fast, too soon. He's got a steady job, got his own car, and his own dreams. He saw his path laid out in front of him, clearly, surely. He knows what he wants.
I always feel slanted towards the feminine edge when I speak to him. My head clears, and I'm not the usual bimbo, the occasional brainiac, the once-in-a-blue-moon Clinique counter lady lookalike donned in a power suit, or the sporadic try-too-hard seductive evil temptress. I don't even feel uncomfortable meeting him in my shabbiest clothes. Or most tousled-looking I-just-woke-up hair. I'm just me. The me I used to know. The me before my life came to a crossroad and I had to take on multiple persona to suit the occasion. Not that I do it on purpose, but it does feel as though my fragmented multi-personality disorder runs on autopilot. Double standards? Maybe. Sensitivity? Maybe. Necessary evil in effective communication? Maybe.
Maybes. Many maybes. I spell maybe with an "s" at the end now. There're just too many options to choose from.
Do ex-boyfriends feel obliged to help out their ex-girlfriends? Do they see it as a chance to catch up with an old friend whom they once went out with? Do they find it hard to turn down a favour asked of them?
Maybes. I won't know. And I won't ask.
Can one ever look into the eyes of someone the same way again, after stepping over the boundaries of friendship? Maybes. I won't know for him. So I speak for myself: I see him more like a friend, simply because I'm more aware that he is a friend now. A friend who won't let me down, a friend who would reach out a hand for me when I fall, as a friend.
Agape. Platonic love. I can still love you, even though I'm not in love with you anymore.
I'm thankful for his presence. *smiles serenely*
11:32 AM
