The logician, deconstructed.
Remember that one conversation that sticks with you for a million moments hence?
That weird feeling in your arms and your gut, increased heart rate when you talk to them, all psychosomatic indicators that you've been completely serenaded? That.
I realize it's impossible for us to meet now; highly unlikely, too, that we'll ever meet.
I could turn out to be the biggest disappointment of your life, and as I'm afraid to say, so could you.
But there's this stupid inexplicable sense of belonging, when I talk to you.
A sense of warmth. A sense that my trivialities are not trivial; they're important. They matter. You matter.
I feel closer to you than I ever thought possible to a person.
You've grown on me over the past few weeks. A lot. Told me stuff you wouldn't tell anyone else. Told me what you like, what you hate, what you fear, what you see, what you feel, where your priorities are.
Your trivialities are divine. I've stuck with the belief that there is no divine power, no purpose higher than to exist, and to let everyone exist as they do.
Not any longer. You're entrenched in my existence like dye on that white cloth that makes funeral attire become anything but.
You're in my veins. You're gasoline and plutonium. You're explosive, yet utterly soothing.
You're sarcasm, wine and all things fine. You're strong, stubborn, direct and visceral.
In some places, at times, when I'm forced to question myself, between solitude and you, I choose you every time.
We're each on different paths in life. Same stage, so we connect.
Oh hell, do we connect. Why? How? I'm afraid to ask myself, not for no want of answers, but because I fear it will oversimplify this logician's lost feelings.
You're my Achilles heel and my Hercules, all at the same time. You befuddle me. I've never been as confounded by someone as you. You make me question everything I've ever held dear and believed. Every inhibition, every shred of my being.
I realize that there's a Snowball's chance in an MRI machine that we'll ever hold each other close. Whisper sweet nothings into each other's ears. I'll never know what your hair smells like after a shower, or how your eyes sparkle when you laugh. You won't cry on my shoulder when you get sad, when life overwhelms you so. I'll never know the warmth of your embrace, or the taste of your lips. I'll never run my fingers through your hair and ask you how your day went. We won't ever have fights with the flour in the kitchen, arguing who's the better chef. I'll never get to cover you under sheets after you've fallen asleep reading that book I suggested and you didn't like, but you didn't tell me because that's who you are. You won't ever feel the strength of my arms and how amazing my shoulders are to lean on. But know that you've created an impression in my mind that'll die later than Death itself.
I'll come get you someday, though. One day.