Imagination

cassiemclean:

It’s hard to believe there’s a whole world of people out there that don’t know about you. They can look at you and look past you. I would be any one of them, with their hurt and their heartache, their vain longing, desire, resentment of others’ blissful ignorance to what (to who) makes it so. I wouldn’t tell them about you, they wouldn’t care. About the details of you, your looks and your skin, I would never try with all my might to describe that look: when we held hands and thread our way through the holiday rabble, and you looked back to make sure I was there, despite my hand in yours. Still I wish you’d look back now, now that you’ve let me back into that crowd, left me with all these faces. And I don’t know who you are but I know who you are to me: that feeling of recognition when I catch your eyes, that feeling of knowing: I have been loved by this face, I’ve held it in my hands, I’ve kissed it with my body, I’ve held it in my mind— for too long—and I see it when my eyes are closed. I close my eyes and see your face. I open my eyes and it’s a sea of strangers who aren’t looking for you, as I have been—for too long—and I would be any one of them. I would take on a hundred years of memories, five hundred seen with foreign eyes, ten thousand foreign faces loved hopelessly, hopelessly unforgotten, if it meant I could lose your face among them.

(Source: spoonerette)