We all have that one.
That one person who stumbles into our daydreams just a few times too often.
You know.
The someone who makes you feel alive
when they talk about something that fills them with the same fire you feel as you gaze into their eyes.
And I think, for me,
it's you.
You are the most important to me. The one I would go to hell and back for, time and time again, despite the fact that you're beginning to seem like you wouldn't do the same.
And it kills me to see that as my passion for you blazes as bright as an everlasting sun, yours for me dims like a dying ember, more and more with each passing day. Almost by the minute, it seems.
The memory of what once was follows me. Haunts me.
Consumes me to the point where sometimes I can't tell if I'm living,
or just merely existing.
And there's not a day that goes by where I don't CLING with all the strength that remains in my fractured soul to the lies you told me, desperately trying to find a glimmer of fragmented truth buried deep within the utter bullshit you used to whisper so seductively in my ear.
I seem to do that more and more lately, spend my days attempting to craft your words into something they weren't and will never be: what I wanted to hear.
I sit here, in the dead of night, attempting to recover from the long day of farfetched thought, and the silence screams at me, hitting me with the cold truth that you waltz across my mind just as often as I waltz out of yours.
And through my anguish, I am brutally reminded that
it's you.
You're my someone.
It's always been you.
