Shameful pity collecting.

She spoke in code, muffling the clear ideas to opaque hues. I know the fear, the loss, and the need for rejection that she stores away. I also know the pain of holding each back while the three pronged claw tears their way to her eyes and her mind, settling on her lips. The settling notion that while I sympathize for her she is only capable of empathy for me. Without indulging in the aesthetics of my grief, it swells daily with each bad mood I can't pull her out of. Even when I do her eyes stay glazed and focused on the past.

Could I lead her out of the maze? Before her, I was a consummate believer that the human spirit can be healed through the gentle nurturing of someone that shows they care. In her specific case she seems disillusioned with the possibility of being whole again. Indirectly she blames me for her stature now, and while she doesn't take the initiative to speak her mind, she shows it generously with her sad blue eyes. We both pretend the moment doesn't exist, but my awestruck gaze is mirrored by her with a frown.

-----

To taste what could have been and to absorb the oils from her neck through my lips. My struggle to keep the moment alive is met by the fermenting of her eyes. I could have been everything for her. She knows I'm what she used to want, but I'm not grooved and can't lead her needle past former events. It's a shame that she won't take it, and yet a bigger shame that I don't give up. She's passive enough not to let me know because I'm too aggressive with my attempts to preempt failure with acceptance. Relativity states that if I move fast enough I could make her forget, but gravity is the constant here on earth. It's winning and forcing me to plateau, waiting for the invisible fingers to pull me down, why do I crave to drag this out?


Because I'm hopeless, and so is she.