Disclaimer: To cover my own butt, I do not own anything except a mind that thinks angst is nicotine.
Sometimes I watch you from afar, and wait.
Oftentimes, I wonder why I am doing this; why I am tormenting myself so badly, wishing for something I know I can never have. I try to analyze my obsession, and find myself miserably failing, and falling instead into a void full of unanswered questions.
Who would know that a few steps across the room can seem like a multitude of distances, and that a couple of tiles are so hard to cross. My mind tells me that the way it is now, the distance is not counted by our physical gap, but anchored in another dimension altogether. At this, I fretfully despair.
There is a fact too brilliant to ignore – that we are two different; splintered in two separate worlds that can never converge.
Its amazing how sometimes I fantasize we actually have a chance, that we might actually pull together. Then I remember who we are, and I chase that stray thought out of my mind. Lately, my thoughts have wondered too much of late, and I spend the whole time trying to pretend that I am not looking at you, not dreaming up instances where we actually are close enough to touch.
I do not mean physically.
Why is it, that you never turn around to meet my gaze, or to tell me what is it you really want? Do you not know, that it would be so much easier if you gave me a direct rejection, instead of this constant apprehensive blankness; that is transmitted across to me through your lowered eyelids and aloof gestures.
There is a huge expanse of time in which I drift, half consciously, between the reality and my own crafted world. It is the time when I soar above on the plume of eagles, and ride the wings of darkness. Sometimes, I see you somewhere in between, holding out your hand for me to take. In my eagerness to accept that outstretched palm, I always break the moment, and wake up.
Those times, I always find a certain moistness on my face – and I cannot help but wonder what it is supposed to mean.
Your eyes flickered to me once, and for that moment, there is a bridge over that huge expanse of uncertainty and lies. Then you looked away, and that split second is forgotten, or maybe I had it all made it up in my imagination - full of unfulfilled passion.
I keep wishing, and all I get is this lingering reminder of ambiguity, running through my veins; like a cold fire, cleansing and destructive. Slowly but surely it is destroying me, and breaking me into a hundred and one tiny shards, which soon will be the only vestiges left of me.
There never is an answer when I look to you, and try to discern what you feel for me, what you want of me. As I keep trying, and all I get is this intangible emotion of hopeless oblivion, hidden in layers of obscurity.
Do wishes ever come true? Because mine never do.
A/N: I am extremely sorry for this influx of bad angst pieces. It just hasn't been smooth sailing in my writing and I implore you for criticism.
In the stillness of the night,
He came to me.