I had a dream wherein I had a chance to spend a few hours with you and it was wonderful. It was the you with whom I am so familiar – funny, warm-hearted, and beautiful. For a devastatingly short while, there was no drama, no heartache. We were finally happy. You wanted nothing, I expected nothing. You felt relaxed, like a warm bath. You felt like you belonged.
I yearn to say that I am sorry, but I never do. I expect that you would ignore it, anyway. I don’t believe that it is pride that keeps me silent, so much as fear of being hurt again.
I often wonder what changed you. Or instead, what changed me. Maybe you’ve never been the way I perceived you; I may be at fault for idealizing you into fitting the mold I crave.
I feel like I live my life completely alone. I’m a solo wanderer in the desert of fear and sadness that swallows me. I am scared and I lose people too easily. But still, I cannot tell you that I am sorry. I cannot ensure that you will be around tomorrow. But I don’t know how to make you stay.
I can’t change for you, you won’t change for me. Is it possible to reconcile differences such as these?
I wish you cared about the little things; I no longer want to be consumed by them.
Is it possible to break you from your fascination just long enough to see how quietly still I exist? Screaming yet never heard.
When I am dying I wonder if I will think of you. Does one think of people when they die? Or is it experiences, mistakes, missed opportunities that flood our fading brains? Maybe one person is just not important enough to make a meaningful blip in the timeline.
I used to enjoy being alone until I met you. Now I crave the silence, all the while itching for more time with you.
If I have achieved nothing tangible am I still successful?
Is there love without control? Is there control without love?
How long can I sit here and watch you burn out like a dying star? There is no amount of advice that I could ever offer to make a significant change in your life. You have doomed yourself and I can only sit behind an invisible pane of glass, hand reaching out to you, but stopped hard by your resistance.
Is it really emotion that we see in a dog’s eyes or our own reflected love? Perhaps we desire so badly to be needed and loved that from the empty shininess projects back our insecurities, and in the light from our aching hearts it turns to pure dedication.
Instead of dreaming, most often I think. I am unable even to escape my winding spirals of obsessive thought in REM.