Because your intelligence is art,
While mine is words.
Because you think you lack
In what I want you for.
Because inundations pass below you,
While I drown in the deception.
Because love is an afterthought,
Like empty exhales between puffs of smoke.
These days, I casually pollute myself to catch glimpses of your evening. I
sit on my balcony and recklessly ruin potential to still have something to
blame. I fold hours into brief excuses to see you anew, again and again.
Mundane Time is all I have with you. I give it to myself while you serve
apologetic deceptions. But don't you know? Time and deceptions hate each
other. They only irritate each other. The in-betweens they share deepen the
scars they commit together.
The t.v. lights flicker from your apartment and tomorrow is always
a better day to join you. Can we waste time together? Can I live in your
emptiness? Will you let me get used to your bad habits and your tendencies?
I want to stretch out along your length. Be bored with you. Wrapped
up in you. Gazing at the ceiling looking for meaning in the cheap plaster.
Interrupted by occasional sighs of contentment. But instead, your shadow
only taunts me. Oh, you are so liminal in your lapses of talent. Your
moments of identity.
I gave up boys like you a few times before for good reasons. The
same reasons. But, I keep fooling myself. I keep falling. I long for the
day where the middle will be enough. Where artificial smiles are
compensated by plastic sadness, dramatised only for the audience as tears
and mascara are.
The wave has passed again. And gone, again. Now, I look to your
window only from the corner of my eye. No longer focusing, but merely
investigating. Do you still not care? Do you still commend my courage? Do
you still ignore the thought of me?
When will I no longer be a stranger?