Pride. What an omnificent way to say if one of us had won.
Between swallowing promises and truths turning vile, there is none left but our acquittal from whatever it was we chose to have felt way back then. Decembers of waiting inadvertently for us to speak of foreswearing – would another summer be a replay of that hapless winter? Februaries of adverting candidly what we thought was a promising tomorrow – or would another summer be a redemption for that wretched winter?
Pride. What a destructive way to claim our prize.
That was our mistake, wasn’t it? We started the game without clearing the rules, what’s at stake and when to quit. That sounds reasonable enough for us to stay playing even after years and years. Would it have been better if we stated one of us had to stand outside the other’s window – throwing stones and shedding facades and just finally confessing – in order to win?
Because at one time or the other, you would have needed me to say I needed you. And at one time or the other, I would not have wanted anything more than for you to say you wanted me.
Then pride had to come and squirm its way into our game before it started playing us for its own amusement. In the heat of everything, I had to walk away for so much petty things and you had to bring down your phone a thousand times even though quarters after midnight we long for warmth – all because we feared for the other to win more than we wanted to for ourselves.
And whenever did we stop looking just since we couldn’t anymore? Did the regulations ever include ruining what we see of each other? Did they ever say we have to leave over and over the mess we’ve once left behind before? Did they ever say we n e v e r had to leave – keep on living with little white lies and keeping the game alive?
We would have not lost all if we lost our sense of gratification before we lost ourselves.
Pride. What an ironic way to give our congratulations.
