January Blues

We hang with such potential. We create a vacuum of nothing and everything. Our being, our existence represents everything I love as well as everything I loathe. We are a 10 hour plane flight, disconnected and empty, suspended in the sky. No negative and no positive and absolutely no chance of being pulled to either side. The potential hurts. What could become haunts the crevices of my bones and makes me ache with fury I’ve never before felt. Sympathy is not the answer but neither is complete oblivion. I don’t love you and I never could. That word makes me dizzy when I think it too closely to your name. I couldn’t love you by any sense of the word. Then again, I’m not sure if I could every love anyone by any sense of the word. Maybe this blurred infatuation with you is as close as I can get. I almost hate you. The way you ignore my messages and never return my calls sickens me. I hate the way you pretend to have option! s when we both know that I’m the alternative choice you’ll never have again. You feel drawn to me because of my rare breed in your separate world. I am forbidden and you want me. I know you do. I hate it when you talk in public or talk even at all. I hate what people say about you and everything you stand for. What I love, however, is the mere potential idea of you. I love that our coexistence could cause the flame of a burning riot, if not an entire war. At any moment in time we could spark this whole city and send the world crashing into a daze. We are a loaded gun just waiting to be set off.