Beyond Lines: In My Dreams

Literature) 

Words cascade from my mouth. It's like rain, only instead of giving, it deprives. And for what? He's not interested. That's why he approaches me, right? That's why he wrote me first. Or was that just something I misread? Between the lines of his intention is this abysmal nihility, a void, some patient emptiness that is us. Maybe I'm foolish to think that I could hold relevance—that I could hold him. Close, without condition, like a dream. Merely a dream.

In My Dreams:

I think this was blown out of proportion.

I waste my time on wasting yours and

it's all fun and games when it's just fun and games.

God forbid that I have feelings.

I wear a smile on special occasions,

when you decide I'm worth your attention.

If you don't want me here, why'd you let me in?

I'm lying next to you, feeling forgotten.

Is it over?

You were almost the one for me.

All I ever wanted, never what I need.

I can only run so far from reality.

I think you were better in my dreams.

Is it over?

Closed doors with no closure. 

Initially)

Some time ago, I learned his go-to order. A few months ago, I learned his name. Only now do I realize that I could never forget it. On one hand, it's tender—to remember him in such soft regard. On the other, I don't want to know him like a memory. I see him make his way to the café. My eyes follow him to the far side of the lounge, but he'll never know it. He's wearing jeans and that new Uniqlo cardigan I saw in his video. It fits nicely, the color scheme complements his complexion in such a way that has to be intentional. I admire his sense of fashion—I always have—since first sight. 

Pending)  

I never knew time could yield like this—I never knew I could yield like this. But here I am—here I've been—but he'll never know it. One confession and several interactions later, I am met with ambivalence. I can only try so hard before it hurts. I can only say so much before I become supernumerary. So then, what more can I do? Chase? Make prey out of him and myself a varmint? Where's the sincerity in that?

Falsify) 

I'm somewhere between impression and reciprocity. I've made myself known. My truth lies naked on a page somewhere amongst his indifference. While I know the heart is too intricate for penmanship alone, it's a start. I wait. Despite what he may or may never feel, I remain present. I stand on what I know is true—myself.

Finality) 

I am brave. I am unapologetic. I released the breath I held for months and I'm still breathing. I exist. It may not be on his surface yet but I exist, if only in his atmosphere. There's symmetry in that. I speak warmly, in soft regard, because even if he never knows my heart, at least he knows my name.