For a coffee and some nicotine.
You glance upon her, and she reminds you of something; dare you say - special?
It is something familiar, and yet subtly bizarre. Be it of the way she returns your gaze and the way her bright eyes and glowing, warm grin seem to hide something within torn, gently - like curtains drawn asunder, and never quite mended. Is it then selfish, that aching, fiery need you feel to be the one who mends her?
You still find it somewhat troubling that you are, till now, yet unable to put your finger on this painfully troubling familiarity. And every now and then, perhaps in a sinister manner, the voice in the back of your head whispers,
“She reminds you of your dreams.”
It feels too much like an easy way out, doesn’t it? Too simple. Too easy. It feels like an excuse. And that is, most likely, the reason why you refuse to accept it. And yet, that is perhaps why all the other possible answers feel just as wrong.
Be I your dreams, that the crutches of delusional maturity made you neglect.
Be I your hope, that your fatigue killed.
Be I your smile, that your responsibilities made plastic.
Be I your vanity, that made you write this piece of nonsense in the first place.
Be I Love.
And yes, nothing else, you unfortunate fool.