I like sunsets,
The way the sky’s heart bleeds, at the dreaded departure of it beloved. And I love that the whole sky is the heart, tainted with soft pink as it bleeds, at the dreaded departure of its beloved.
I love adventure,
Our psychotic lust for defiance, the secret affairs we love to have every now and then with danger, a hideous adultery to rules, suits, clocks and all that comes along. And I love how I can taste adrenaline at the tip of my tongue: sour, fictional and more habit-forming than coffee. And I love that non-spoken acknowledgement that in order to remain sane, a dose of insanity is a must.
I also love the “déjà-vu” impression,
The slow recognition it sends spiraling through you, the maybes it carries: Maybe this world really is familiar after all, not that drear; Maybe you’ve already been through all this; you can do it again then! Maybe you’re bigger than you thought, an old spirit that’s been there since the very very beginning… I enjoy the tranquility and confusion that flash within, and how ephemeral they are.
What I was trying to say all along is,
I’m not sure I liked being the sky, while my heart was bleeding, at your dreaded departure. I remember tasting adrenaline at the tip of your tongue, as your face melted into mine. And though the face is long gone, soreness sticks around. I think you were my ultimate dose of insanity, for you come with sharp edges and troubled waters.Oh....f only I could go back to cherishing coffee I recognized you, as soon as I laid my eyes on your dear figure, not that I saw your warm brown eyes, elsewhere, nor the way they turn into irradiant moon slits as you smile. Something about you felt familiar, and that wasn’t your sight to my eyes, but the feeling around you to my heart. I sensed that tranquility and confusion, one of them I’m afraid wasn’t as ephemeral as one would hope. And that makes me believe that, on a scale of “déjà-vu” to “attraction” , your encounter was… a wreckage.
Now what I’m really trying to say is, I think I didn’t quite fall out of love with you..
But here’s one last thing I love,
The power of a written word.
The alleged strength entitled to raw words depicting the weakness of a human being at its finest. So here’s to my mastery of the art of words, here’s to hypocritical strength I claim through the flow of ink on my papers.
I guess what I’m really to do after all is, celebrate the fake glory of a heart-broken writer, torn out between a “hurraaay” and a “Oh pity.”