There I was, presuming in one of my guilty pleasures.
Letting the words on a page create in imagine in my mind, my own imagines.
It's the biggest reason why I enjoy, what I enjoy, I get to involve myself with another woman's work and make it come together.
There I was, when I felt something but that wasn't what was new.
The process of having all those words be gently put together as it creates a story, always made me feel some type of way.
But this time, it was the essence of Deja-vu flushing over me that moved my attention elsewhere.
It was a sorrowing tone.  

How come I'm always able to see the good in someone, ways they are never able to view me?
How can I separate the flaws and obscurities of an individual, to take them for who they are, when they don't take the chance to know who am I truly am.
I notice those things.
I notice everything.
There is this content-ness living inside of me.
Helping me, exhale the calm air.
With that, I have the ability to feel right and wrong.
Last night was the preliminary example.

About last night.
No one is able to surprise me.
I'm too familiar with lies and signs being thrown at me.
With that being said, I can't even surprise myself. I know me, too well.
As we sat there, we had an empty conversation.
It was like we were talking to ourselves, only with question marks at the end for the other to answer.
A conversation so meaningless, I can't seem to remember.
Body language was spoken and it told me, he wasn't the only. Not even close.
Funny though,
At some point I was all about feeling too much, all the time, and now?
I feel nothing.
I even forget about how our eyes met for a split second because although they traced back to each other, I didn't feel the lust we had pulling us to anything closer.
I guess that is all we could be.
That is all we would ever be.
Lust.