I didn’t get a say in the vetting process of my first name. Tsvetoslav. The words for flower (tsvete) and glory/Slavic/word (slav), interwoven. A late grandmother’s fervent wish. My curse.
First published 24 February 2021, London. Minor edits.
The mood of the writ below, distilled.
When alone, a person learns of many different ways to express love and affection, but as soon as they are confronted with a manifestation of their deepest desires, words are rendered meaningless.
Late spring, almost two decades ago. We sat in the small park overlooking your father’s hardware store, talking about… What did we talk about? You had to help him occasionally, while I needed to be near, constantly, a blind man following the warm glow of your being. I still remember the first time we touched. My hand, resting on the old bench backrest, fingers outstretched towards you. The soft-touch of yours, reciprocating in an affirmation of the inarticulable. Our fingertips explored cautiously, every bump and every crease up to the wrists. Gently, we held on for a moment before slowly letting go. The eyes, my God, the lips, the chin. Was it all just a trick of the light?
For two years afterwards, I tried kissing away your every tear, not knowing how to love the whole. Unwittingly, I hurt you until you could no longer stay. The evening you told me we were breaking up, I cried so much, my tears, they ruined the back of your jacket. Couldn’t stifle them for 3 days straight. We had both left me. Futility, ineptitude, misery – I wither, still, your light denied me since.
So close, yet so far apart.
Your words in 2019, our hearts for the rest of time.
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