the wheel
The world and the wheel keeps turning.
Not much you can do about it. It feels broken, it limps along, but turn it inevitably does.
And in the end I am left not sure if even when things here go the way they will, again inevitable, I'm not sure whether I am more scared of asking the question (do you still love me?) or hearing the answer (who are you?).
I have never felt more for a person, ever, than I still do for her, but that's never enough, is it? Unless it comes back, unless it's two way, then it is nothing but butterflies and bullshit, fancy words and whistling memories of what might have been.
I wonder sometimes if she was scared. Was I obsessive? Was I promising to try to be more than I could be? All I could and can offer is to be the best that I can be. And damn but it's hard without the inspiration, the sheer joy that she made me feel.
Oh sure, I do feel less, I do feel christ only knows how much darker, I'm not sure as she understands that, busy turning her wheel, leaking into another life (I even wonder if I am the odd stray thought even). And I wonder, damn, but I wonder so often, where HER crazy-fell in love- damn I don't care if you have whatever- rocked her world bit of me went. Did she bury it?
Is it a madness of my own that I still dream of her touch? That I would still do or give anything for her? That I want to be the best thing that ever could or would happen in her life? That I want her to be happier than anything else?
But I am just a wheel, turning and creaking ...
Not much you can do about it. It feels broken, it limps along, but turn it inevitably does.
And in the end I am left not sure if even when things here go the way they will, again inevitable, I'm not sure whether I am more scared of asking the question (do you still love me?) or hearing the answer (who are you?).
I have never felt more for a person, ever, than I still do for her, but that's never enough, is it? Unless it comes back, unless it's two way, then it is nothing but butterflies and bullshit, fancy words and whistling memories of what might have been.
I wonder sometimes if she was scared. Was I obsessive? Was I promising to try to be more than I could be? All I could and can offer is to be the best that I can be. And damn but it's hard without the inspiration, the sheer joy that she made me feel.
Oh sure, I do feel less, I do feel christ only knows how much darker, I'm not sure as she understands that, busy turning her wheel, leaking into another life (I even wonder if I am the odd stray thought even). And I wonder, damn, but I wonder so often, where HER crazy-fell in love- damn I don't care if you have whatever- rocked her world bit of me went. Did she bury it?
Is it a madness of my own that I still dream of her touch? That I would still do or give anything for her? That I want to be the best thing that ever could or would happen in her life? That I want her to be happier than anything else?
But I am just a wheel, turning and creaking ...