The moon is almost full again, pregnant with fury. I wait each month for it’s madness, blinding the darken sky with it’s wondrous gaze. My hands are shaking and my eyes are swollen as I write this. I caught myself in the mirror this morning and stared, pressing the palms of my hands to the counter, rushing closer and closer to that mirrored image. Could my eyes be this swollen from all those burning tears? It has been so long since I cried for anything, for anyone in such a way. I was not sure I had the capacity to care so much. I thought this heart of mine was dead to such feelings, succumbed to a coldness - a strict loneliness. It is untrue I suppose. I sleep with ‘Steppenwolf’ beside my bed, before it laid in bed with me, next to my extra pillows - shifting in the night as I did. Perhaps it is the closest I will ever come to being with you - of you.
I feel hollow inside today. I even found refuge in a closed public bathroom where I cried feverishly, thinking of all the things I may never get to do with you. It occurred to me that it is probably true that you do not feel for me what I have always felt for you. I do not think we could be separated for so long if this were requited. I feel so much it’s spellbinding, and I surely cannot compete with the past that I was never in, or a love I never knew - nor even that of orange skin and golden hair. For my love affair with you is so unnatural it could be warranted as crazy. But didn’t people fall in love years ago, centuries ago just by gazes, letters, and simply complexities of nature? Are we not such old souls that we would fall into complex habits?