There are a thousand things
I wish I could tell you, and I can’t. I find this more troublesome
than you can imagine. There is a wall
and there is a vine
but either I don’t have the fortitude to climb, or I fear what I will find once I peep over the edge
Often when I think about you I feel like the matchstick girl, palm against the windowpane, staring in and wishing I knew what it felt like to really belong in your life.
I understand the need for arms-length communiques. I understand it better than even you do, probably.
It doesn’t mean I have to like it.
See this line here? There is my toe, inching forward. It knows better, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t itch.
Every once in a while, it happens that we stand palm to palm, and it’s a matter of who is wishing harder that they could slip through the looking glass and tumble over, give in to the abyss and wonder. And wonder.
Neither will budge of course, just stare and stare until the things that seem so backward and wrong will blur and sort of make sense; they have to, you see, because otherwise we’d go mad from it.
One day I will push a little too far and all this will shatter around me, a nightmare of broken things strewn before me, parading in front of my eyes and mocking my false bravado until I cannot help but fall on my knees and hope whatever benevolent souls that can forgive will do so.
Or maybe it won’t happen that way, but I refuse to budge, and thus remain
the girl with a palm against your windowpane.