I want to write about you, without writing about you. I want to make you sound like you are non-existent, a mystery. Maybe foreign. You’re too much for me, but I can’t have enough of you. Heck, I can’t even have you at all. When I see you, I feel magical, so magical that you almost don’t seem real to me. I rage from within when we speak, but the kind of rage that is filled with excitement. I feel dazed when I am around you. Dazed and happy and dazed again. If you haven’t already figured out, the way I feel about you is something I cannot comprehend. Almost like this piece of writing. I want to bury my feelings for you so deep in an abyss, but I want to display them too. In a subtle manner, of course. You came into my life so innocently. How was I to know that this innocence was only temporary. I thought you’d be just another person to knock on the door of my life, pass your regards and then leave. But you’ve knocked, and you haven’t stopped. And you want to learn about what lies behind this door you’ve knocked on. You care. I want to teach you all about me. I want to take you through the most complicated bits of myself, to see if maybe you can figure them out for me, spell them out for me with the exact efficiency and diligence you use to get by every second. Will you understand my choices if you were to learn them? Oh, there’s a raging hope in me that you will. Lingering amidst the hope, however, is reality, screaming down at my stupidity for liking you. Because you are there and I am here. You and me, we cross paths on a daily basis, yes. But they’re the type of paths you cross each day with every second person. We cross paths, but we will never cross the paths that are marked by my emotional and physical want of you. See, reality kicks me in the stomach when you’re around me, and although hope tries its hardest to heal the wound, reality always wins. Because you are there and I am here. Because you are his. And whose am I? My thoughts’? hope’s? reality’s? Does that question even have an answer? Will it? I dearly hope so. And when it does, I hope I can tell whomsoever I belong to about the way you were too much for me but I could never have enough of you.