I met someone. Someone who it seems, may have already disappeared. How does that work exactly… thinking of someone frequently, what seems like always, when your skin hasn’t touched one another’s and your eyes having never met. How are your mind, and consequently your day, filled with thoughts of this…phantom. I don’t know him. He could be a figment of my imagination - I can’t prove he exists. Is he gone so soon?
What a beautiful creature he seems to be. Dark but inspired by light. Broken and inspired by likeness. Lovely and still intrigued by things, or someone, that doesn’t have lovely to offer. His heart, making me want to know of everything that has hurt it. That smile that has captured me, making me want to know all the things that make his mouth make this move towards the top of his face, that pushes his cheeks just so, for the waves to roll over what seems like perfection. These stories, told so poetically, making me want to keep track of everything he may forget. That sincerity that seems…real. That realness being what awakened something inside of me that I begged to be always asleep. And now… it seems he may be gone, more quickly than he appeared. My insides weep for someone that they don’t know. This must compel a new definition for insane. Aching for something that was never yours. Missing something that you never knew. Thinking of someone who is not thinking of you. Feeling let down by someone who never promised to hold you up. Insanity in deed, and yet, somehow… Here I am. Writing of this phantom that sparked something in me and made me want to believe. Such a short time, it took for him to sneak in and steal away so many months, years, agonizing moments of learning how to believe in not believing. He came in and now it seems may very well have just been a ghost. Someone who moved me because of what I wanted to believe not because of what he was actually able to touch – nothing. What if this soul is never to be heard from again and it was all just a trick of fate. Something that seemed it could be…something, but some how again, in this life of mine, “something” only to me.
While what was excitement in my chest, relocates to fear in my stomach I realize that this one, he made an impression. Not something fun. Not something busy. Not something complimentary or fresh. An impression based on things I didn’t know I could find, much less recognize so quickly, so intensely, in another. This impression is built of knowledge and intrigue and desire and lust of the soul, of the mind. There is nothing physical but the feelings that run through my limbs when I learn of his words, and the feeling of despair that seems to be draining my veins now that his words may be gone. If they aren’t gone, where did they go for what seems like an eternity? Why did they disappear so suddenly when my words are still aching to be released for him to learn? Where did his words go? Why would he think to keep them from me, or not think about it at all? Wasn’t I of intrigue? Didn’t I make an impression? Weren’t my words thrilling to learn and my stories enough to keep him? What about my bruises, or stories, or soul makes people “get ghost” so quickly?
How can you miss someone you’ve never met? And how can you know that’s not how it’s supposed to go? How can you be so involved with someone’s history without knowing their present? I’m so intrigued and now more so, by the “chase”. This is how it works for me. How it always works for me. I don’t know if he’s gone away but I wonder so wholly, in every moment...
Where did his words go?
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