It’s always a whisper how she passes through slowly.
She looks at me, every single time, clawing and crawling towards the surface of comfort, surely, but again slowly.
I see her, gazing and staring at what could be, at what will never be. It’s disappointing sometimes, but life usually is.
I know sometimes that I should’ve tried harder, or maybe pushed further, but talking is easy and doing isn’t breezy.
She approaches me, gets close, and all of a sudden I realize how my imagination is just the frustration, of a man so willing to imagine.
She never really knew I was there, and I don’t find that not one bit rare. You know, all I ever wanted from a stare, was something I thought could be there.
Yet again, I was wrong.
My imagination never ceases to play tricks on me, and that’s alright. At least I can still imagine, which is fair, but life sometimes is truly fucking unfair.