Muse

And even when you're here I'm missing you because you're never close enough. What's fair about this? Me trailing along in your wake while you glide ahead, unperturbed. All I have left is a throbbing space in my chest where my heart used to sit and my pen to scribble useless words. You don't know this, but you have my heart tied to your finger with a string and you drag it along behind you, bruising it with every step. And you don't know this, but my useless words fill pages and pages, dense and black and with my soul staring out from between the lines, hoping that you come across the tattered pages that flew from my hand and were strewn along your path.

You don't know this because I'm too afraid to tell you.

I'm trapped in this cycle again; I sit, I stare, I bleed. I groan, and glance, and hope. I write these entries, doused in melancholia, ready to go up in flames at the slightest spark and thrown to the wind. I run out of words, though the feeling continues on, until I feel like bashing my head against the wall.

And the worst part isn't that you don't know you do this. The worst part is I don't know how you feel. If I could tread another person's thoughts, just for a day, an hour, a minute, I'd wind my way through yours; anything to find whether you're slowly being scarred as much as I am. Why is it we must be separated from those we wish most to know the best?

This is like walking a knife edge - one slip and I could end up falling off either side, either with you, or without you, cut and bleeding. But that's the thing about the razor edge of a knife - even as you walk on the narrow path, the blade sinks into your feet until you feel you cannot go on anymore. But I'll continue for a while yet, because eventually I'll either pull even with you and claim back my heart, or fall, half dead, into your arms.