It's the first time in years I put this pen to paper
spilling my thoughts onto this blank canvas.
The need, the desire, the consumption of his presence
There are few words I have searched and recovered
that scrupulously communicate my inner torment.
Fears of unrequited love delve deep into my insecurities.
Elimination of my longing for understanding renders my fancy.
For with him, I do not seek refuge in a mask
but only discard such self-destruction.
In his light I recover the beauty of bliss.
My once innocent charisma resurfaces
and I capture peace in this idea of a person I dream of being.
However he is a dream to me.
A mere image of a wise, trapped soul.
Have I never met someone so fixated on one's own aberration.
Yet it is that very irregularity that captivates in entirety.
The single flaw that drowns his mind at night,
keeps others up wondering.
How can we not love the imperfections others find fascinating?
The defects that set us apart from normalcy.
The details that make us lovable.
How can he not see the beautiful mind he fights
the mind I desire to understand.
If only we perceived in the mirror,
the way our faces reflect off one another,
We might descry the indubitable self love within.
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