Over time, my loneliness began to manifest itself as a physical sensation. As it advanced upon my very being, I found it characterized not by the relative emptiness of the environments in which I reside at any given time, but by an ever-present void which resides in me. Imagine this void as a black hole of sorts, into which my figurative heart endlessly descends. Meanwhile, my literal heart beats more and more softly, failing to effectively assert a liveliness in me, pantomiming the lifelessness I feel. What solace I do take in the fleeting, fortunately dilated periods wherein the tapping of my heart is set to pounding by some chemically-derived influence. I am thankful that I can escape myself with relative ease these days, but find discontent and dissatisfaction in the inevitability of returning home to nothing.
She sits upon perfection’s perch, across a bar in which I search for something more distracting than the fact that she exists but is entirely apart from me. She is a work of art to me. I only wish her heart could see what mine has come to wish:
That is, for some plane of existence — some imbalanced, strange dimension — where a goddess pays attention to a regular who blends into the places that she visits.
Is it a possibility at all? Or is she not for me to call a love, or lust, or passing fling? A sudden burst of passion singing through me says perhaps that we could be a happy ending if we managed a beginning.
The things I pour myself into:
Writings in which I mention you;
Neglectful of myself and self-reflective of a someone else who isn’t me, and isn’t thee, and truthfully is lost to both.
Impressing love upon a ghost has set me fairly far from most of those I might have proffered close relationships. I’ve offered but remainders of a love that’s slipped as I have grown ashamed of it.
My heart has made a game of it:
To throw and run and try to catch or capture just a frame of it, before once more it flutters past and dopplers out its name at speeds embarrassing my shutter’s grasps at light. …