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Lissa Heli Nov 2012
Maybe you just think too much.

You want to think.
You want to think that you mean something.
To them at least.
So you listen carefully to everything they say.
You swallow every word, every syllabel, every meaningless sound that escapes their lips.
Looking for something.
Something that might not even be there.
But that isn't going to stop you.
Oh no, it will only make you try harder, dig deeper.
You'll drive yourself insane, even cry over something that was never there.
You feel like a child
a child that wants a toy they see
so like that child you do everything to get it.
You see I am a child. And you my dear, are that toy I want.
you are the first colors a baby sees
the first tooth a child loses
the first love a person has
and the first nightmare I ever had.
And like all those things I will never forget you.
You have the beauty I try to capture but always fall short.
I stayed away for a while.
Hoping that these sentiments would leave and I could stop thinking.
I did.
But not for that long.
I came back eventually.
Like a dog you feed. It becomes a habit.
It was okay at first it was even fun.
but then it happened again
I started analyzing every cursed word you had to say.
I started looking for that something again.
I started looking for hope.
And now here I am thinking, thinking, thinking and thinking.
dreaming about love affairs that I havent had yet. Or even ever will.
playing out different scenarios in my head.
asking the always puzzling "who, what, when where, and why?
It's all a vicious cycle that you are in charge of.

But I don't know
Maybe You just think too much
Matalie Niller May 2012
"I'm a big fan of the way you breathe," I said.
He smiled.
Anyone else would be taken aback and thrown my loneliness into my face.
"I appreciate the fact that you exist," I continued.
His eyes looked at my eyes, but that wasn't the whole story. Not quite.
Because once the delicious visual receptors in his gummy pink brain
receive my Natalie signal of recognition,
it's as if his linguistic region wants to talk to the operator in my linguistic region,
and they strike up a lovely lively convo
about colors, and the weather, and how **** fine the oxygen feels today.
He never says much
with his sounds or voice box,
maybe because his voice box is sore,
or maybe because he's embarrassed of his voice,
or maybe still because his neural impulses and chemical signals
can not be properly conveyed with the noises and syllabel patterns found in a human language.
I like to think
that his thinking is so complex yet pure and beautiful
that any other mind could not possibly comprehend or appreciate its magnitude.
I like to think that he has every answer to every inquisition ever;
he is omniscient. Other-worldy.
A religion in his own
who does not wish to save others but to merely observe, unbiasedly
and make me sink into the depths of admiration
and flood my bloodstream with oxytocin.
What a man.

— The End —