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Apollo displaced.

When did I fall for her? It seems like a dream I only remember parts of I'd say it was something romantic like... from the moment I met her but that's not true. There was no specific moment, no frozen episode in my heart. It just happened. I didn't even wake up and suddenly realize it just felt to be there. It was present, it was. And I haven't been able to speak straight with her since. Everything I do and say with her now is a desperate lie, a farce, a silly complex diversion but all the while I wonder if she's just playing along. She's as sharp as a tack, but twice as oblivious some days. While I hold her as the golden standard, I'm still aware of her flaws, her cold aloofness is also her daring attempt to be strong. She accepts the most ghoulish contracts, and I don't know why. She's pressed too thin, and no sensible counsel can immediately stop her. I suppose the reason she sees these things to their painful conclusion, is that she's a good person. I wonder if she's just toying with me. Maybe that's why god gave mice such long tails. But now, once again, there's no place in her heart for me. Missed her by that much- when I thought I was being considerate... allowing a time to mourn. Maybe the truth is, I was just scared. And now that ship has sailed again. I hope it capsizes somehow, without hurting her. But... such a dream is impossible. And to rescue her, from the situation I willed into being its just... too male. Too heartlessly oppurtunistic. Too... familiar. She deserves better. She deserves better than me. What have I? A few reject roses and a handful of romantic fantasies? Words falling awkwardly from my fingertips? Sad, distant eyes wandering the curve of her lips down that precious pulsing path of her neck? There's so many curves to a woman. The more I fall, the more of them I see and the greater the wish that I could trace my fingers and lips down the pleasant walk my eyes always take. My love for you, if I dare use that word, is a selfish and frightened thing. For how can one love anonymously unheard? How can one love without daring to write it in the sky? Well... paper is far more lasting. Sometimes love is something very silly, very comfortable, yet very quiet. It's not always dinner at 8, roses at 7, naked romps in bed by nine. Sometimes its a good friend that you're afraid to lose even if it is to the youthful brave hope of one everlasting romance even for a moment, at least it would be shared, and not just a dream mostly forgotten in the brisk chaotic dawn. Would I sacrifice this cherished friend for a chance vanishing lover? When I already know, there in my darkest insecurities, there is no place for the sun when her days are occupied blissfully by the smile of the crescent moon.
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