It can probably be done, avoided just like that, unperceived. Managing it as well as you can, seems strange to me, feels effortlessly independent of you, strong, impenetrable, and I wonder how you can do it. How you can live a life abstaining from feeling this I call love, passion or even warm affection, be blind to it.
It frustrates me beyond what I deem reasonable, that manner of yours of underestimating the clarity in what I constantly share with you. And that you’ve shown me, have you forgotten those words and moments that perhaps no one may be able to properly lure you into ever again? Because I sometimes may ask myself if maybe I might actually be trying to find meanings and depths in situations barely noticeable to another’s eye. But then I imagine you and how fine can you, and we, be, whenever you cease to do that, rest with your inborn state of inalterability. Are you from any other world, far from here? Because I can’t seem to find anyone else who does that, behaves as freely and happily, and juvenilely in a sense, innocent to this extent, and it makes me so greedy of such peace and invulnerability you possess, and how it’s yours only.
Give me that or give me yourself, one or the other, either can mend me for good. Stop me from roaring into these paths you disregard. Will they ever be mapped out by that wrapped heart of yours? For finally and ultimately comes what kills my brain every now and then, how can one show love to someone who doesn’t know its pungency? One who overlooks it as if it’s some side effect of a madness you fear, oh… and that angers me too much, you know it. Don’t call me mad for the way I stare at the sky or your waving bound to untangle braided brown hair. Please don’t say that, for other than sounding mildly close-minded of you, I must first let you know this one thing.
That idea you hold as true, it makes me sad in a way I need not to exteriorize as you would mistake my tears for sadness, when they’re all but dripping dew of this joy you locked inside me along with its key.