The girl I loved but never fell in love with.
The girl who loved me but never owned me.
Opportunity knocks once just like lightning strikes a spot only once, they say.
Stifle your feelings and the chemistry, the ‘connection’ will be asphyxiated. Not good.
You can only take a small bite of your cake, if you wanna keep it.
Apprehensiveness will deny you what’s truly yours.
Or will only let you taste just enough to fill you with enough what ifs.
Fear of what next. Fear of companionship, fear of emotional submissiveness. Not good.
She came into his life at time when he’d just moved from a single sex school to a mixed one.
When he didn’t know how to react to daily proximity to a girl he’d have something for. Or any girl at that.
She touched him when the earmarks of a past relationship hadn’t faded away.
When he was still in denial of feelings past, in incredulity of the circs present.
A past relationship of long distance letters, stolen kisses on Interact days and a once in a lifetime dub on Sosh.
To having skirts all over, soft tender rubs from arms passing by, the high pitched voices and giggles.
Either way she touched him and what sprung up was a bond for a lifetime.
The girl I shared my vests with but never shared a towel.
The girl who showed me, compared her little boobs with my chest.
Affection is so cryptic, it just sprouts like a shoot burgeoning from a seedless raisin.
It fills your soul and you cease to care about how much you care and feel for the other.
Nothing in this world makes us so necessary to others as the affection we have for them, nothing.
Whether it is reciprocated or not, doubled or halved, still you care, incessantly. And you don’t see it. You don’t realize it till someone points you there, and you feel it.
It feels good too, feeling something you can’t quite comprehend.
As to love is passion, contagion is to affection. You catch it, along the way, like it or not.
If it’s real, it sticks. Only in affection is durable care bottled.
He always made sure she had a blazer on, as she was asthmatic. She made sure he attended lessons as he was not that motivated.
She always fought his fights for him, and he defended her all through thick and very thick.
Every weekend they’d sit under the shade near the basket ball court and chat away for hours, like forever.
Only that forever is never enough because was always evening prep.
They were not in love, they were just there, they weren’t even friends. They were something else. They were like clones.
And everyone knew it. Talked about it but couldn’t explain it, as they both seemed to be seeing others.
When she lost her dad, it’s in his chest that she found solace. He was there for her all through, holding her hand.
And hold hands they did, every day at evening prayers, in church seated on the wretched pews every sunday.
Something was in their hands, a connection of sorts. For the hands would pen endless chits.
In church, at the aisle holding hands they would be, ought to be, as everyone predicted, but for affection devoid of action.
The girl I will never marry, but whose hand I’ll happily give away.
The girl who will never make our blood thicker than water.