To the man who will never be mine.
I know.
I know that the numbered hours we spent are only just that, hours. Hours that you spend like all the hours and minutes and seconds of your every passing day, but to me these are hours, minutes, and seconds I spent with you. There is a difference.
In my hours you were in it. While you go restlessly, walking in your path, diving into the sea, climbing the hills, gazing at the stars, I see you. I see you kick the pebbles out of the way so I can walk behind you with ease. I see you diving after me whenever the current is strong to keep me from drifting away to sea. I see your muscles tense as you struggle to hold my hand so I wouldn’t fall off the cliff. I see you trace your finger to the sky connecting the stars, showing me your constellation. I see you, but when you look at me, I am not the one reflected in your eyes.
I know that it was a one-way ticket, and yet still I rode the train even though I knew had no chance of returning. No chance of returning from these feelings I have for you. A feeling I know is bound for oblivion, forever drifting into an infinite space, never bouncing back because while you are a black hole, I am a star certain to be swallowed whole.
And I know you are the man who will never be. The man who will never be mine.
