I’m not in love with you,
but with the possibility of us.
Your eyes are alight, my dear,
but not bright enough to set a fire in my heart;
Still, in them I see,
a reflection of what could have,
of what might have been;
Maybe the heat in your eyes could have melted my flimsy reasons,
if I allowed you,
if you were willing to;
Maybe things could have been different,
if I wasn’t me,
and you weren’t you.
Your hands, they’re strong.
In the dim light of the space that housed unanswered feelings,
they look like they might have fit against mine.
But life is not poetry,
(and if it was, it would not be the kind of poetry
packaged into pretty books climbing up the bestselling lists,
for no one is interested in poetry that leaves a bad taste in the mouth),
and just because two hands might have fit together,
does not mean they could have been together.
My heart was always the rational one;
it knew what could, and couldn’t be.
Regrets were something that could be dealt with,
but the conclusions from bad decisions lingered,
and should, and always, be avoided.
It is my mind
It dwells on your hand,
dwells on how easy it is to grab it,
to walk with you to places I was always so afraid to go,
so afraid to explore,
when I was alone, and the aloneness constricted my lungs.
It dwells on the warmth of your skin,
as we traverse forests, float by mountains, dive by oceans,
shaking off the blankets of fear and loneliness until they all but feel like hazy memories of the past.
But my heart knows what could, and couldn’t be.
When you’ve thrown away love, you’ve thrown away any hope of being happy–
that’s what I’ve always believed.
It’s always hard to reject a hard-ingrained fantasy.
Be it a god, or magic, or the probability of finding yourself in a single person out of seven billion people in the world.
But reality hits some people sooner than others,
and you will be left thinking,
“Will I be okay like this?”
You’ve always been, and you will.
As long as you don’t forget how to feel at all.
Is not something I believe in.
Not something my heart, too busy pumping blood, is capable of.
I will never be able to fall in love with you;
But I will always be in love
with the possibility of being in love–
with the possibility of us.
– “In Love With the Possibility”