All it needed was a single word yet she seemed too taken by the immensity of her unrequition that she blocked everything that made sense. She never understood the power of a preposition, never took the time to think about the gravity of a single word no matter how many times I had made it obvious. Each word I spoke or my pen stroke would have imposed something inside her. I wanted to be her poet so badly that it crept inside me as darknes, tangled my rib cage and formed a fervent lust that saw me running around her like a bastard. Those days I ached for her like a raging turbulence that gathered no speed and I fractured inside as if each muscle snapped out of its place. I wanted her like intimacy that triggered concern each time she declared she was fine yet balanced itself from showing too much. I searched for her like scrapping ice in the hope of getting anything solid but each time, I trembled out of the coldness until I had severed the ice and I felt no triumphant feeling, heard no winning songs and nothing that seemed like her, she melted out of my hands – something that felt like hugging a storm, only to be left withering in anguish, frustration and it would have been better to survive language than her.
Yet still, there was a silent war she battled with underneath her smile. I believed she wanted to confess the intensity of keeping her mouth shut from declaring how much I had become a problem. The evidence was how much her jaws ached out of the incessant slamming of her teeth. Still there was no blood there, only tiny raptures of detachment. There was numbing stiffness, anger, spilling desire until she suddenly elapsed like time unto the past as a memory. That I am only left gazing at all the pieces of letters, prose and poetry I wrote of her. I had stopped myself time and again from showing her how much literature she had become because to me it was no historical undertaking but pure love in which I knew not where to pour except in writing. Now it makes me terrible sad that language could have limited the interaction of mind, body and soul, the mingling of thoughts, sensations and fate.
But I will write once more what she misunderstood or never heard the chance to think about. I wrote OF her and not ABOUT or FOR her. ABOUT represented approximation, immediacy, something flung too close but yet so far that I felt it would never be worthy writing about her. FOR represents direction, on behalf of and at any given time a supportive word that I knew was too limiting to show my feelings for her. So I made it clear that I wrote OF her to express origin, agency, quality, substance, subject and composition all twined in two letters that she would love me in the same way. The subsidies of my love, desire and poetry rest in a remote chamber only as a token of mere experience. Something that should have been beautiful had language been expansive and understandable for both of us.
(C) Eddy Ongili 2015