You ask me why, knowing there is no ready answer. These things are not rational. There is no checklist. Love is not given as a prize, nor as a reward for effort.
I realise this sounds harsh – evasive – for I have been you more often than not. I have longed for, courted, endeavoured to impress. Pleaded. All to no avail.
Why did I choose them? Why have you chosen me? What are these unconscious mechanisms, chemical, psychological, that impel us to one over the other?
When I was a fool who knew little, I would have offered you reasons. Now that I am fool who knows a little more, I will not insult you with meagre explanation.
Try as we might, love will not be won. Nor justly assigned. It will saunter into view, unbidden, and turn our best intentions to delusion and desire. And then leave without notice.
It feels cruel being me right now. I am sick on your behalf, if only because I know these words won’t help, and that silence is no better medicine.
Love that is not met remains the stranger. Observed, yet not truly seen. We find ourselves now on opposite sides of a window, whispering through glass. Steaming up the pane. Evaporating. None the wiser for all our cloudy exhalation.
Sorry.
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