you're nothing extraordinary -- just so you know.
your eyes may deteriorate the multiple shades of green, and your toned muscles might be strong enough to climb a twelve-story building without gasping for air.
but that --
that doesn't make you extraordinary.
i.
we no longer talk.
we no longer share our sense of humor or interesting moments of our lives together, because apparently, silence between you and me is absolutely golden when it lands directly in the palm of your hand. it's not like i have anything extravagant buried away beneath my skin that would interest you anyway. and it's simply a matter of time before you become desolate, and i unravel the deepest meaning of bliss.
by this time, you suddenly will have decided to love me.
ii.
i don't miss you.
it's completely inadequate to think i've possibly lost you, but your face only enters my lonely mind as an illusion when i close my eyes, and allow my thoughts to linger to everything i've left untouched. but i'd be naive to think you've separated yourself from me entirely; from the sensitive words you let drip from the corners of your lips.
you know,
the words that were almost sincere enough to mean something.
iii.
it's pointless.
even if i were to pour my emotions down your throat, you still wouldn't comprehend what staggered throughout my bones and ignited my nerve-endings when you penetrated me with falsities. and though everything that i feel is indescribable, i have found clarity within the chances you haven't taken.
we aren't an option;
we're simply a vulnerable form of desperation.
and within the boundaries of desperation,
love just doesn't exist.
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