Loved in Vain, Sweet Capulet! (?Feb13)

A Tale, of Us

 I still talk with the moon. It’s comforting. When Taryn and I were together, I’d ask my jewel-encrusted sparkle in the sky for things like another chance to tell Taryn how much she means to me, the ability to make her laugh, and other vague, formless requests of that nature. I didn’t sincerely mean to literally ask the moon anything at first, because it just seemed very silly. But as time went on, I found myself inquiring of my twinkling gem almost daily. It was our symbol of hope, rather than love: It was inconstant, but guaranteed in the end. Hope… Hope for better, hope for our relationship to one day be accepted between our houses, hope that we could someday do things normal couples do like go on fancy dates or hang at the other’s house and watch Netflix movies… Hope that our love can withstand the flames. That’s all we could cling to, inconstant or not. Honestly, I don’t know if we would have lasted as long as we did if Tara wasn’t so strong herself.

Oh my god, I fucking miss her…

 Taryn and I first noticed that our relationship began to shape into a Romeo and Juliet type of situation at the very beginning. She was dating someone who her grandmother (sort of) favored but who she really wasn’t interested in before I came along, we belonged to different houses (our race and nationality in a way could represent differing sides), when we couldn’t see the other, we’d send messages through our version of the Nurse and Friar Lawrence, etc. etc. We are both poetic minds, so we took full advantage of this link and began writing hundreds of letters and poems to each other in the style of writing that Shakespeare displayed. The ones that I manage to salvage after our horrendous break up don’t even scratch the surface of the type of content we collected and shared with each other. It’s really sad; I lost most of them because she threw away or burned them all…

Or, at least I think she did.

I remember combining all the materials I had myself into a binder (that’s what she tossed away), but I also remember her keeping a blue folder full of the older letters and poems I gave her. She confessed that she found it hard to stop rereading them when she crept to her lowest; finding extraordinary comfort in my golden words. That used to make me feel so good inside…


I shouldn’t have yelled, even if she did spit in my face and cast the only thing I valued away. Maybe things would be different if I just put up with her sour attitude and accepted her “justified” assumptions about where my heart was. Why did I put up with her and this entire situation, for us to be decimated in the end?

Tell me why…


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