My mind tried to cry itself to sleep tonight, and the tears burned my eyes unexpectedly. Now, I sit and punch out cathartic words I wish you wouldn’t see.
Tears come so sparingly to me any more that I almost forgot what it felt like to weep, truly weep and let the tears flood over me, washing away the things that can never be.
Because it doesn’t matter what my desires are; these things are not mine to hold on to, no matter how badly I want them.
And what will bring light to the situation is not me, or us, or this, but clarity, instead of the hazy fog we brew together. For that haze makes everything murky and confusing and dreadfully wonderful.
It creates the illusion of an alternate reality where we could be. Cozy and warm and away from the world.
But it is only an illusion.
And not the right path.
But oh how I wish it were.
This was never to be a matter of the heart.
Yet when the heart is already involved, when love already exists, who are we to tell it what it can and can not do. It acts on its own accord and follows whatever whim it chooses. And the whim it always chooses is to grow.
It should have stayed out of it.
Because then my eyes would be closed. My pillow would be dry. And the knowledge that sooner or later my heart will be broken would not be on my mind.