The Inbetweener

From my little corner of the world, I think of you. I think of your stubborness to persist inside my mind. I know my little world is no different than somebody else's, but you somehow managed to subscribe to "my everything", that is, when I wasn't watching. For I would have had some trouble letting you in. You found your way in. And now I wish you found your way in the opposite direction. Oh, and it's summer and honeysuckle smells painfully a lot like you. Yes, I love how that honeysuckle fragrance wraps around me like you did around my heart. Gosh, how I despise myself right now for allowing you in. And then you left, my heart in your hands. Right now I'm not afraid of seeming pathetic because I know whatever I go through now is a piece of emotion and I've learned to accept the humanity behind emotions. I' m not going to rant and rave on emotions endlessly, but they deserve an individual treatment, don't they? While you might think reason lags behind, I have given reason its fair share. For now, I resume to those feelings that came to life through words.

You'd call on me with your mellifluous words, casting a net of deceipt upon my heart; then let me hang on to a sea of paper promises. But it's all right. I never truly believed you. My guess is that it must have been that inner voice, going beyond conscience that whispered "don't". And now I'm in an odd place. Did I half-fall for you? I'm not sure if I can paint the canvas of my fickle heart in the right colors. Finding the right mix of words for this old heart of mine is never easy. But my heart has learned the tough lesson of caution. And after all the rambling past, my heart could only half-fall for you. That in-between state. If only I had that teenage heart, than I'd know how to fall full-heartedly. But now I only fall half-way and it's tormenting in the sense that you never hit a bottom rock. It's as if my ability to love is a rock thrown in the pond, whose fall is at some point frozen in time. It just floats there in the semi-dark depths of the rippling pond. Somewhere in-between the kind, warm sunrays of your enthralling words and the murky depths of disappointment. It just lays there, in a stale stay. Helpless. For now.