The Process

"I love you."

I hear the words.
Simple and passionate.
Slow and romantic.
Sticky and saccharine.

It's what every girl wants,
and it feels like a cliche to me.

The jury decided long ago on you,
you charmed them with your chivalrous manner,
fought the dragon and won the princess.
Here you removed your armor,
and gave me your sword that countless lives have been lost to.

You can have your smirk and your lingering amber eyes.
You're magnetic and you know it.
Let your ego rampage unchecked spewing self-satisfied fumes.
For you are a blind fool that will never learn to see.
Your god complex is so fitting.

There is a plain,
frozen and barren,
it fills the space between us,
but you could never see it,
because that's deeper than you get.

It's like eating speed,
like flying a plane.
And I'm panicking.
I feel it,
My thoughts are hanging from the ceiling,
icicles,
whispering threats of laceration.

This hesitation is a plague,
the ball is in my hands,
the crowd is crying for a goal,
it's my call,
do or die,
because in this game every second counts.

I am at the edge,
where the ocean ends.
The curve of the earth underneath my feet,
and I take the step,

"I don't think I love you."