To feel something, to let roll and prolong it at will is a counterproductive effort, done by so many. It’s as if trying, touching is always better than hush. Is it? Or is the beginning more bearable than the end? Flipping sides of an unexisting coin and if there was one, would be a faceless one. Always right or always wrong, your decision.
For decisions are what rule when love fails to be, and how hard and meaningless it glows when it starts to end. Did it ever begin? You reach a point of not knowing the answer to this one. I stared at it too, much more than I’m even aware of, but I know that. Why would such emotion allow the body that sustains it to simply stop it? Mind has little power over passion, less over love. And how vapid would one need to be to let all through and off the mind and out the heart? Well, could it be easy? A matter of meeting not the right people or to do so when we’re wronger than them? When that’s the case we fail to notice it, that’s who we are.
I find it difficult to affirm what flaw was mine. If it was the excess of you or the lack of me. But I think my lacks emerged only when I found out that I could touch someone other than myself. The same hand that gives, takes it away. Yes. Opening is letting in but closing isn’t letting out no more, and I’m straight on that. The straightest I became, the more I dared to mix and remix it, to search whole pieces of it, to make you up again and your voice. Your laughter, I can’t recall it anymore. No, but if I heard you once more I’d be so able to confirm that that’s it, what I was starting to forget.
To know and not know, how much of each you live on, that game of memories is what impedes me from stopping this. And yes, I’ll quit and no more words will fill up this deluge, but only when you’re finally mine and off of me.