Ever The Same

Maybe it’s because we’re different.

All that I aspire to be reflects directly through your face, but you can’t see. My reasoning for this is simply that I hold the trait for perception, a trait most would consider a benefit, but not you, not me.

Maybe that’s the only thing we agree on.

My eyes can see right through you. I try not to look, but every other day I glance forward, and though it is just for a second, the pain is real, and buries itself deep inside a chamber of my heart.

You can’t see this either.

You stare blankly out the closed glass window, diving into your past, considering what you’ve created, an abyss of confusion directed towards the person (or is it now people?) you love. Not me.

But how can I blame you?

If anything is clear in my glassy eyes it’s that your tumult has increased by your own accord. I shouldn’t be a part of this, I don’t want to be, and yet every time I look through your face, I jump back in.

If you read this, you would sigh.

You’re not a bad person, not stupid, I would say, you have so much to live for-but mentally, you’d walk away. I’m only an elitist (against my own accord) because we have to, just have to, balance out.

I wish that you could see.

And open up yourself to anyone, but more selfishly, me. You mean much more to me than I do to you, it’s clear, and it’s for this reason by which I pull away. I tell myself I can handle it, but I’ve never dealt with pain well.

I know that it’s not meant to be.

How could destiny make my match someone who is blind? I try and try to turn away, but my eyes, those that you lack, see the truth: a letter that will never be sent. You see, I will be gone for a month, waiting.

Maybe it’s because we’re different.

You couldn’t see to buy the stamps. I will think in my cabin (to my neurotic self) and touch my fingertips, awaiting a sentiment that can only be left by your sightless gaze. One by which will never come. How sad. How expected.