When I see her, it is never by purpose, always by chance.
I never see it coming, it is a new kind of hurt every time; a kind of hurt I should not feel so deeply for someone that will never again truly be mine. Again, though, I use this adverb delicately. She was mine by title- she took the claim- but never was she bound to me, never did she feel as intimately. However, I place no blame on her for never seeing me the same way I always have seen her.
I am nothing more than a grain of sand others stand upon as they gaze skyward into the infinity that she is. She is the sky, the stars, the clouds. She is beautiful no matter how much destruction she brings in her wake. She makes the open air fullest, being by stars or by storm, she shows the world something spectacular.
Do I love her?
The answer should seem apparent, it should be clear as day to any and all who were to take a look inside of my deteriorating mentality- but I can never be sure. I have found intrigue in everything about her; her looks, her traits, her sin. But do I love her, I wonder? All should point to such a likelihood, I should be entirely sure of myself by now that I love her. I must love her after all of this agony and stagnancy I have endured.
Yet, I do wonder what kind of love falls so unrequited and venomous? Sometimes logic prevails though my blind desire, it makes me think. An important question, I ask myself again: Do I love her? Maybe, maybe not. I am simply scared of letting her go, regardless.
But even without the fear, I have failed time and time again to cleanse my mind of her.
