" 'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. "

And deep down I knew, how it was always too late. Just a millisecond too late, a small fraction of a heartbeat away. But that never seemed to stop me. I was possessed by a force far more potent, and far more terrifying, than the limits of imagination would ever allow me to believe in.

I’ve travelled through the light and back, endlessly. I’ve plunged myself into the depths of despair, day by day. Only to watch it all go down, in triumphant fury.

She’d often warn me, not to dwell in the ruins, or try and pick up the pieces, for they’d crumble into ashes in frantic hands. I could have fallen for it, had I chosen to, and sometimes I wish I did, as it would have been easier on us both.

What was lost seemed already forgotten. Failure had never been as benign as in that moment. Yet I, unable to put a halt to this madness that’d taken over my being as almost by surprise - violently spewing its insides out, kept seeking and wanting, craving and aching, longing for her. Despite all, drawn to this chase, like a moth to a flame.

My life was no longer mine. I could see no future, or dream of a tomorrow that was anything other but a race, against inevitability itself. All I could trace beyond that, was sheer abjection and desolation. I used to ask myself as to whether I’d do it all over again. Now I know with certainty, that I’d do anything to taste once more, that riveting flavour with which it all began. And if the devil were real, I promise you, I’d sell my soul for another chance to hold her.

Fact is, she was gone, long gone, gone off the deep end. My head spun in technicolour: Inhale, smoke - exhale, carbonated desperation. How in the world was I ever gonna find her? Nobody seemed to have the slightest idea as to where she was headed, and I dared not think that she did. All I could do was close my eyes, and picture her long locks, dancing flamboyantly in the wind, as she rode her roaring red motorcycle, speeding past cities casting concrete shadows over living beings. She did possess a helmet, but I’ve scarcely seen her wearing it.

I knew she wanted the full treatment, the thrill, the rush, the danger, as it was meant to be, for all those dauntless fools who get their kicks in shamelessly flirting with death. And I was twice a fool, for I loved her all the more for it. It was perhaps all these little stunts she used to pull every now and then - which served as a constant reminder of the possibility that I could lose her at anytime, that drove me insane, for my reason alone would never allow me to fall for a creature as recklessness and audacious as she.

The door opens and my fist clenches with anticipation. But before I can exert any force against that sorry excuse of a face, I get boldly slapped across mine, causing me to stumble backwards and almost fall down the staircase.
“Next time you decide to pick up a fight with me, I’d appreciate it if you refrained from arriving shit-faced drunk”, he informs me, “I’m all about fair play”. His glistering dark eyes met mine, and I could finally distinguish that elusive quality which she saw in him.

“Well in that case, you should know that I’m high as a kite too mate, which means you got a lot of catching up to do if we are to be on an equal footing. Tell me now, between us two, why did you let her go?”, I inquired in the mildest manner I could manage given the context.

At first there was a bitter smile, then amusement: “I was taught that when you love someone you are supposed to let them go, if they so wish. And she did. She’s had enough of us both, and I am sure of it now. If you aren’t yet, then simply look at us clowns.” He paused pensively and then resumed with further poise and resolve: “Just so you know, I did it for her sake, not mine. You should have already known. It is clear to me now, as clear as ever, you only think you love her, but you don’t.”

“Doubt thou the stars are fire, Doubt that the sun doth move, Doubt truth to be a liar, But never doubt I love.” My voice had become an unpredictable instrument, courtesy of all the booze and smokes I had recently consumed, hoarse and uneven, in what was perhaps the most disgraceful, yet passionate reciting of Shakespeare.

Opposite me someone struggled to suffocate a roaring laughter. “I doubt that you love not. But it is you, it has always been you”, he chuckles. “It is yourself that you love, the one only she can bring out in you. That’s why you so desperately need her here, she has kept you alive for so long. Now you know who you really ought to be looking for...” He regarded me with a kindness you’d only reserve for a child, forgiving my utter ignorance.

I can’t remember the last time I’ve felt so profoundly ashamed.

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"The moth don't care when he sees the flame
He might get burned, but he's in the game
And once he's in, he can't go back
He'll beat his wings till he burns them black

The moth don't care if the flame is real
'Cause flame and moth got a sweetheart deal
And nothing fuels a good flirtation
Like need and anger and desperation

The moth don't care if the flame burns low
'Cause moth believes in an afterglow
And flames are never doused completely
All you really need is the love of heat"