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 the way she returns your gaze and the way her bright eyes and glowing, warm grin seem to hide something within, torn, slowly - like curtains drawn asunder?
How selfish is it then, that aching, fiery need you feel - to want to mend her?
You still find it somewhat troubling that you are, till now, yet unable to put your finger on this painfully troubling familiarity. Isn't it cruel how every now and then, perhaps even 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 died with your fatigue.
Be I your smile, that you painted upon your reflection; reason being: Responsibility.
Be I Love.
And yes, nothing else, you unfortunate fool.
For now you know;
I am beyond you.