I am stuck on you because you are a beautiful intersection between desire and possibility.
And I am a poet.
To us, dreamers, this crossover is an endless beach of mouldable sand waiting to be made into castles and villages to act out our wildest fantasies.
You are a freshly snowed land that I am dying to put my hands on and make it into everything it wants to be.
Have my love been spoken, a curse would set all of this to stone. and instead of a playground I’d have grave yard full of all my expectations, hopes and memories set in concrete disappointment and despair.
I both love and hate that I’m this way.
instead of moving on, or holding a grudge or even pouring my heart out into a last letter to set my self free. I go and take all the little things I’m left with and creat a whole unreachable world in your name and start living in it.
I think I do it just because I can.
Only a writer does such foolish things.
It’s like when the moment of inspiration hits and I become barely of this world.
Ideas become extremely possessive, some more than others. The wildest ones will overpower my sleep, take over my body and make me feel energized without drinking or eating.
They’ll will fuel me for hours and hours so much that I’ll forget people’s existence .
It’s very similar to that, except for one key difference…
the idea always feels new and foreign until I’m done with it. Your love feels old and like it belongs with me and always have.