I thought this was different. Isn't that what we all say, all the time. 'This time it's different' and when the same shit happens, we are cursing ourselves, why, why, why, the interrogative why mocks any semblance of rationality and sanity. I followed my heart. I followed it so far, I fell over, encapsulated by the lens, until I saw him leaving the frame, oh wait, that's not the frame, that's my life, he is leaving my life, at least I have a picture. A picture that he was here. We were here, there was something, I didn't make it up, not this time, even though I do dream about it. Let's go back to pretend, I am sick of reality, let's just go back to making pretty pictures. I can pretend to be pretty and put on a nice face, it will all work out. And I am not jealous one bit despite my green face. I don't hear anything. Your silence speaks volumes. I fell in love with your strories and you with my words, but they are all substitutes for what we really are.
You will never know the essence of me, because you never reached out to touch it. Sitting here stewing in my own thoughts, curdling rotten things making milk out of love.
I want something that I can never have. I have set myself up for the eternal dissapointment. And there is no one else to blame because i positioned myself in such a way, the story had made itself before I even entered it. So perfect. So perfucked. It's like it never happened. We can erase any mirage that it did. But you can't take away the picture. For one moment, you were honest.
Left with pixels and words to swim with and cuddle at night.