It would have been so much easier if I could like you as a whole, to accept you and all your somethings, to make sense of all the reasons why my palms swear or why I lose the words you so rightly deserve to hear. But I take you in, the madness that you carry, and the inevitable pain of acceptance that you’re way out of my league.
I should take on the blame and before you ask me why I carry the weight of the world, I realize my own selfishness in the process that I still consider you as merely a pastiche of words I bask in constantly to keep your memory alive. The thrill of holding onto your closest connections, the way I breathe the stories of you in like morning air, and the memories so fresh as they are fleeting comfort me still, even if your real presence can never be felt.
Is it stupid to be stuck in a world where I force everything to run my way? Is it stupid to wish that I were stuck in a world where we exist? Is it stupid to even wish a world like that, to hope that a hundred shooting stars burn the night sky for me to waste my breath, that the secrets I keep of wanting you to finally become something I could quantify? How many times do I have to go back and forth dreaming both with eyes shut and open just to hold onto you?
It’s wrong enough to enclose myself in a world I wish I was in, but what’s more pathetic is to pretend you’re even in it.