I see it like the lines on a monitor,
spiking with each beat of my heart,
crossing from one point on the map to the next.
It was rather uneventful at first, flatlining, if you will,
but I can see the increase in frequency and amplitude as my heart beats faster
each second,
third,
fourth time he messages me
and I am not so slowly falling for some beautiful boy on the other side of this, one of the largest countries on the Earth, whom I barely even know.

I guess I won that stupid fight of "I love you more."

I still feel the pressure of your lips on mine.

It disgusts me.

We were never at a crossroads,
because our paths never truly crossed.
Yet observing your life,
your time in college,
your new friends and acquaintances
all from afar,
leaves me feeling cheated.

It was upon seeing you in the library,
books all about you, hard at work,
that I fell in love.
You were beautiful, well-dressed and groomed,
you were highly intelligent, at the very least academically,
you excelled artistically, producing magnificent creations of paint and graphite,
all of which is still true to this day.
I attempted to get closer,
to befriend you and, of course, pursue more romantic relations.
You never were interested.

Do not get me wrong,
I have moved on, I live my life happily.
From time to time, however, I still wonder on what might have been.

From time to time I wonder if
the words are really there
                                    or maybe I just want them to exist so much
                                                            ­        that I am forcing them onto a page
that is not entirely willing
           Or able
to hold them.

I know several who write so-called "poetry".
But their work reads less like art, emotion, philosophy.
And more like practiced mimicry of such.
It's got "rhythm and rhyme".
But lacks "rhythm&rhyme;".
It doesn't dance with your heart to the samba of excitement that races through you.
It doesn't catch your ear with cleverly chosen sounds like nature does through the birds.
It flops around on the dance floor, to some once-famous pop singer, making as big a scene as possible, in the hopes of catching your attention.

I've come to accept
That I will never be happy with the friends I have,
Because I'm too busy worrying about the ones I have no longer.