Plagued by an infectious feeling of love, I search for her—yearn for her touch, her acceptance. Scanning the room left and right, trying to find something to distract my mind from the excessive beauty she produced, illuminating the room as it shined from her pale skin. If only I could muster the courage to speak to her, to tell her that her allure is astounding and all encompassing, to kiss her slowly and hold her against me. Who am I to suggest that I would ever in the thousands of days of my existence speak to a woman so complete?

I could tell she was affected by some sort of substance and she wore it upon her face. This though did not take away from her profound attractiveness; incidentally, this flaw heightened her appeal, making her all the more attractive to me, personally.

The **** was getting to me now. Eyes were drooping. Head was pounding to the beat of the music, sending me off into missions in my own brain. Though this did not subdue me from her. I looked closer and harder, trying to give my attention to her; she deserved every last second of it. Did she know I was watching her every movement? The way her eyes fluttered from scene to scene in disbelief, or the way she moved her hair from the crest of her forehead.

No. She most certainly did not, and I planned to keep it that way.

How could I be so disrespectful to look at her in such a way? She was happy as she was. She didn’t need someone like me swooping in and causing an altercation in her life. But was she really happy though? Could I make her happier? I know I could. I know I could be the stars to her sky. I could shine brighter than whatever she already had. I could guide her to sublimity.

No, stop. I had to become prisoner to silent admiration. No interference with her personal life, instead I would have to fantasize from the realm of my imagination. A life where she finds me equally as interesting as I find her. The worst part of this all is that this could be reality, but I am too governed by my own sense of inherent morality to find out.

All these thoughts flow through my head in these few seconds I am looking at her—splashing over and over like a busted dam. I try to rebuild the dam in my mind, filling the holes with mental concrete blocks. The water continues to bust through, the stream becoming stronger than it once was. I am overwhelmed by these feelings that they drown my consciousness. I have to stop; I have to push them as far away as I can.

Leave her only as a remnant to my memories.

Light shined through the broken cracks in the sky, illuminating the bitter concrete. It stretched itself across the scattered buildings—some stood while others crumpled under the pressure of having to stand tall, or that's what the light thought, at least. After it had reached every inch of the stained windows, it begged for something nostalgic. It needed to touch skin. The light craved the feeling of life. It had been so long since it had felt some sort of animation, so many times it swept the charred lands—exploring, asking for some sort of companionship, but never a response.

By this time of the afternoon, the sun had gained even more strength and it fully penetrated the thick mist of the clouds. This revitalized the light. It gave it some sort of immaculate purpose—some reason to produce beauty for its visitors. What visitors? Where had they gone? Where had they been all the years that the light spent mourning for them? Exhausting his energy time and time again to hound across the streets for that moment of aggrandizing glory—finding what it had searched ever so longly for.

Was this all in vain? Were the constant endeavors of the light only a mere distraction from the one reality it tried so hard to escape? No. No, it couldn't be. Years and years it had put the effort of fighting through the clouds and the storms and the rain and the mist and the fog and the towers and the trees and bushes and yet, it has nothing to show for its deeds. The cruel reality of life or rather the cruel reality of the lack there of life?

“Give up,” the buildings whispered morning after morning. The words, traveling though the air at super sonic speed, caught the light as it reflected through the city. The light—usually unaffected by the words—took notice to them now. It slowed for the first time in years to the point that it stopped halfway through the city. Thoughts creeped out from the air around it; particles floating whispered mockingly to the light.

It had accepted failure. There was no living tissue that it could grace, no child that it could brush its warm fingertips upon. It ascended back to the sky and ignored the rest of the comments that the buildings and storms left it with. For years it hid away in space. The earth was dark. Revolving in endless circle with no clear purpose, no real reason to be afloat.

Time continued to pass. The Light lost track of it and drifted further and further from the sun and earth until it was becoming consumed by the darkness. It made no attempt to rid itself of the evil latching to it; rather, it embraced it. This continued on for eternity until the light could no longer see its own glow. Its only companionship was found in the silence of the deep space.

A cry. A cry from Earth rang out loud. The light could hear it. It struggled desperately to escape the hands of the night—ripping away feverishly. Chained by the fingers of solidarity, it would only move a little until it was brought back to its prison. The cry became louder. It demanded help. The light could do nothing but listen. The cry stopped.

Death. And with that the light followed.

Why is is that when the door creaks open, it sounds like your “I love you’s”? Or why is that when i stand in front of a mirror, your reflection shows behind me—grabbing at my waist? They told me wanting you was too difficult, but i never told myself it was impossible.

I cant let you just become a fading regret pushed to the backseat of my future. I want you to sit beside me, cradling my hand in yours with the softest of touches, watching the stars pass ever so slowly. The headlights reflecting off your eyes and bouncing back out to the ground of the Earth. The moonlight shimmering down from the balcony of space to grace your lips and kiss them goodbye. Twenty years from now, I don't want to think about how much happier i could have been. I want to think about how much happier i am.

I see you now. You don't even try to impress me. You don't have to try to impress me. Everything about you is thought provoking. You make me feel like when i say or do something, it actually has a relevance or purpose to someone else.

Do I wonder, often? Yes. I wonder about what goes through your mind. I hope that you don't feel as guilty as i do. If you ever did, I wish you'd tell me for your own sake. Guilt eats away and leaves beautiful people ugly and misshapen. You don't deserve to lose the ember you inflame. No one deserves to see you lose that flame.

Drifting to unconsciousness is the only cure to my sickness these sullen nights. Images overflowing my eyes—taking control of my mood and feelings. Images of the way your lips introduced themselves to mine; gentle at first, but oh so sweetly. And our faces visualized themselves into the nerves behind my eyelids; the system they took to search for each other, melding like the ingredients of two hot medals pressed into one another. I wish I could find some sort of approach to escape reality and relive those moments—even if it is only a few seconds, mere seconds could inspire me for the entirety of my remaining hours.

People say that the ocean or the moon is the most beautiful thing your eyes can see, or even how the seven wonders of the world had gone unchallenged throughout the realm of time as the undisputed champion of allure; but darling, you’re selling something to me that I’ve never experienced. True beauty is watching fireworks explode in broad daylight hidden in the tiny, blue veins of your eyes. Watching your snow covered teeth chatter when you shiver in the cold, a reminder to hold you closer than i ever thought would be possible. The music your mouth makes as you giggle when my lips near yours, how could someone turn away something so vulnerable, so innocent, so pure. Even as I type these words, I have to take pauses. I get lost in the way your hands ran their way across my body, following the blueprints of some grand city—a city I wanted you to create.

The night’s hours ran dry like the drinks previously consumed; twisted drunk love was the only love i wanted to ever experience for the rest of my days. The ocean waves reminded me of your voice, so quiet when they wanted to be and so demanding when they had to be. They would take me out with the pull of the current and I did nothing to stop them—even encouraging the rift. I wish that you saw me the way I saw you, though. A cosmic masterpiece created with the finest stars at disposal; a grand creator had some sort of divine conviction when designing and constructing her ultimate purpose. Time had its way of disrupting our affairs, but the universe commanded the blending of two free souls—aimless in their motives. Aimlessness had found resolution? Only time can tell. How ironic.

Sleep knowing my dreams are of sun sets and watching headlights reflect from window to window with your hand pressed firmly against my lips, love.

There's a sick and twisted saying that I've heard all too many times: time is limited. Time has no limit. Time exists in its own entitlement. It always has been and always will be. It has given birth and it has taken life. Time plays by no moral code. It does not judge what is has done like we do. It simply precedes on the path it sees fit. We have to coexist with time. We have to learn how to understand time and it't awful sense of mortality. Because that's all we are, right? We are a bunch of animals floating ominously through millions of years of space with an unknown amount of time.
Our time is far from limited. No animal is woken from birth with a clock counting down to his final moments; instead, we are just fed the idea that we will someday die and wither away. We have no idea when and where it will happen, or even why. All we have is the guarantee of death. The guarantee of the unknown.
What can we do to stop time and its awful habits? Nothing. We have to sit and watch it play its deadly hand on all of us. Its fingers intertwining with our own. Its disturbing face, smiling at what you can and never will know. Time is a god. Time is the creator of life and the destroyer of life. Time is success. Time is failure. Time is love. Time is heartbreak. Time is.