The Way I Feel About You Doesn’t Make Any Sense

I like to write and I need to talk. That’s as basic as it gets about me.

I like to write – to see my words on paper, to feel the rhythm of my thoughts as they bounce off each other echoing from my world to the one at large. Its safe, there’s no danger of miscommunication, no worry of not letting out all that I need to say. I write… and it all becomes clear. The meaning, the significance, my fears, my joy. I write because it is the only dance that I can do – the only mold I can shape.

I need to talk. I have never been able to brood alone in silence. Talking is my release; it’s the only child’s brethren. It’s the fistfight of the girl in the wheelchair. My words have to come out. They are not toxic so much as they are potent. So potent that whether they are good or bad, positive or negative, life saving or life ending, they are strong and too much will always be detrimental to the host.

But I can’t write about you. And I won’t talk about you. So what does that say about me and how could there ever be an us?

Paper seems like a disservice to you. It doesn’t account for the way that you glow, the way I seem to be able to turn every single dark light inside of you into something that sparkles. And no, maybe not for you, but for me…for me they seem to shine.

Words seem flat and you…you are the most dimensional…three, four, five – the most dimensional being that I have ever known. How could I possibly qualify someone – something that has somehow not only changed the rules, but turned the game into something extraordinary. Something I don’t recognize. Something I was too afraid to dream.

But I remain mum. I will not speak your name. There is a code name. Its not because you mean too much but rather because I don’t know just who you are to me. How can I explain the storm that rages within me whenever I’m with you…whenever I think of you if I cannot even understand what is happening outside my window.

You broke me and built me and destroyed me and enlightened me and what does that even mean? I try to explain, but I fear they won’t understand. I want them to see you the way I do. But words seem lifeless. They dart from raft to raft, unable to hold their weight above water because if no one pulls you to safety, will you have swam at all?

All I can do is think. I remember. You sat down in that ice cream store. It was August, but you were in long sleeves. You wore blue, but I saw stars. I felt it and I had no idea. But there you were and I was never getting away