I could almost hate you. The way you insinuate yourself into my life, becoming more than the occasional bit of stimulation to something akin to the morning ritual of coffee and a cigarette, the way you paid off my old ghosts and brought new ones to stay, taking up residence in a psyche as fragile as an iron-clad violet, the way you creep up on me with all the tenderness of a battering ram and yet you touch my cheek so gently when I sleep I almost think it was a mistake on your part and I know you like to keep me guessing. I could almost hate you. The way you never let me get away with it, unless you thought of it first. The way you don't let me escape my emotional backlash, the way you try to drown me in it as if to remind me I know how to swim, the way you keep pushing me harder till I admit I have reached new depth of feeling, namely that of the ripping sensation that comes from balancing substantial gain with excessive loss. I could almost hate you. The way you etch my own thoughts into my skin, the way you delicately trace the things I want to beg you for but bite back on my tongue, the way you walk away knowing you force all of my control, all of my willpower, and knowing it will only serve to make me better, make me more appreciative, make me discover if you are merely a heating of my blood or a dream I keep next to my heart. I could almost hate you...but I won't.

Because it feels too much like love, and I never want to confuse the two

08/01/2005

Author's Note: Hindsight's a bitch.

Posted on 12/23/2006
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