She isn’t in denial.



She knows fully well, and accepts the fact that she is in love with him; it is trying to keep this information to herself that is overbearing. The atrocious thought of being considered weak, vulnerable, hormonal…. But the truly heart-wrenching fear that hangs over her, in her, through her, is that he may not feel the same way.



She knows he loves her; they are the best of friends, knowing everything about the other, saving each other. She also knows that he loves her romantically too; the way he talks to her is enough evidence. But it is the way he looks at her that gives him away. The mixture of love and lust and caring and understanding resides in those pools of deep hazel. There is always 100 times more said in a look than in a conversation with them.



They are absolutely and completely in love with each other.



She knows this, and it only makes her heart hurt worse.



Yes, he loves her, but does he want to? Does he want to cross that line between friends and lovers? Does he want to start something, something that could be blindingly beautiful, but also a place of no return? Does he want it?



Sometimes, it’s better to sit back and wonder of what could be, instead of finding out that it can never be.



So she watches him from a distance, even though he’s right in front of her. He will always be there, next to her, for her, never leaving. But she can never touch him, hold him the way she really wants to; the way she’s always wanted to.



And the most ironic and pitiful part of all, was that he shared her thoughts exactly.



They live everyday trapped, trapped within themselves. They do not know that they can open up, reach out and grasp what they are both dying to reach for.



But they do know what it’s like to always have…and never hold.

I dont love you
like everyone tells
me I should.

I love you how I want.

I love you like I
love caramel corn and
chocolate milk.
I love you as if
you were mine,
and mine only.
I love you like
I love silence and
Wes Anderson movies.

I love you how I want.

I love you until it
hurts so much I
have to gasp for air.
I love you until
my lips turn blue.

I love you like
Margot loves Richie,
minus the cigarettes
plus the suicide.
I love you in the beginning,
middle,
and end.

I love you how I want.

I love you because I can,
I love you because I do.
I love you because everyone
else says I shouldn't.

I just love you.

I love you with a purity
and ease of mind.
I love you always,
I really do.
It doesn't matter what they say,
I love you how I want.

When Fear defined...
goes beyond a state of mind,
your emotional distress
of real or imagined threats
come to life
with your every breath.

Although you cant call her name'
she's always with you, like a bodygaurd
your protector
sheilding you from hurts an rejection
but soon you can no longer detect her (I mean you),
and THEY are all the same,
just out to get you ( I mean her)
and you (I mean she) clings tightly to the past
believing that pain and fear is all that truly last,

Even though youre no longer in danger
its too late you cant find her (I mean you)
to change her
in the mirror is now a stranger
She's just as much a part of you as you

Fear (I mean she) is your champion
so when your knight comes
you raise your shield
and make sure you dent his armor
push him away to disarm him
no matter how charming

You let your emotion
become a person
and you just hide behind her (I mean you)
been that way so long you
dont even know
where She ends & You begin
never alone, yet always lonely
left empty deep within

They are strangers now, separated by their worlds and walls.
There is no chemistry, no spark, nothing special.
They are simply strangers, sharing a couch.

One is autumn, one is spring;
one likes talking, and the other? Listening.

If walls could talk, they’d weave a tale so tragic.

In the beginning, he was sun, and she was moon.
At the ending, she was running, but he was leaving.

In the beginning, there are many things.
There is music, and laughter, and broken strings.
They have cooperation, and commitment, and promises.
Her mom gives them glasses, his mom gives them dishes.
She has her charcoals, he has his guitar.

At the ending, close to the ending-
There is his guitar, her laughter, they’ve broken things.
And that is all that is left.

Promises and glasses, dishes and hearts.
A year of trying and losing is written on the walls;
the wallpaper- peeling, the curtains- ripping.

He clears his throat, she stills- hoping.
“I’m sorry,” she hears, and it’s okay.
“I’m sorry,” she hears, “that it’s ended this way.”

I’m sorry, she hears. I’m sorry, that it’s ended this way.
I’m sorry, she hears. That it’s ended this way.

“It’s ended this way?”
“I’m ending it this way.”