#folder: thoughts

If only words were bars and poems a prison. Then I would write and write and write. About my emotions, about my needs, about my love for the life you lead. I'd write about the moment you told me my words were beautiful so I could lock it up with the rest of you; I'd bury it all under a pile of lines. One by one, the thoughts of every day would line up to be written, to be forgotten. I think, only by putting every remnant of you into letters, my artificial past, will I be free of emotions and their weight. Of the bitter, unsystematic way that love works.

But instead I give your words to the moon, your memory to the sun, so every time I look up, I think of you. I paint your thoughts into the air, color them with your vibrancy, with your gloom, with each single piece of your mind you've shared with me. I treasure them, and even if they may be fake, I breathe them in blindly. I can't help it, or the toxic specks that paddle along with it. It's an all or nothing affair, I tell myself, I tell my trembling hands, I tell my aching heart, the pain in my stomach. I quiet them down, I endure an unnecessary pain for whatever moments of bliss you decide to grant me.

Whenever I try to speak up, my courage leaves; I make another path, lead you down a simpler trail. I have to disguise it all just to keep those damn moments. The worst of it all is, you don't seem aware. Of my jealousy, my cowardice, the intensity of my feelings or the tangled nature of my thoughts. I wish I could say, "I'm in love. I want to see you. I want to witness your grandeur, your presence." I wish I could say many things, brave things, but submission to fear is stable. It's a quiet familiarity, a normal sacrifice; the usual denial.

I hope that one day soon, before my heart bleeds out, before I deteriorate into this paranoiac nightmare, you let me inside your mind and let me get lost in your thoughts, in your views, the way you think of me, of us. In your dreams, in the dark places, in your bright memories--let me delve into it all.