Because with a word she could ruin me. Her influence is stronger than anything the pharmacy magician can conjure. You ask her a question and you hope her tongue will be like silk and not slit your throat. You feel her everywhere, she is your savior and can be your death. You read her lips, her smile, her stance they are all telling you to go away. You are distorted and hope that you can hide somewhere in her mind – you will always be looking in. You kid yourself that if she gives you any response at all that Jesus is real and love is something more than a bad chemistry set. I stop in the middle of this essay to assess the confusion and shortness of breath this dead universe breeds. How does she not know me – I am wearing her skin. Alone I feel nothing but distance – I drive by the cemetery once again. How does another human penetrate so deep? You know the limits of love, the struggle in the aftermath of the initial Shangrila, but still it kills you not to be there with her. If she ignores you, if she says the wrong thing, if she provides her sanctuary to another – the hospital bed awaits.
this is another unrequited love story.