I mean, seriously: what were we thinking?

We would talk, late into the night and straight on 'til morning, not caring for the sleeping world nor fearing the terror of the day. We would only concern ourselves with the other, who was likewise sitting in front of a glowing box, moving their fingers in a ridiculous dance, pretending they were talking to the other.

Not much time passed before we began to consider it a "real" thing. I would miss her. She would keep me in her heart. But there was a nagging feeling, a blur in the corner of your eye.

I wanted to believe it was real...

She wanted to believe it was real...

We wanted to believe it was real...

Never is enough... we consider ourselves above the need for human contact, think we value the intellectual soul. If you are getting the intellectual equivalent of raucous sex, are you satisfied? I just wanted to hold her hand. I wanted to brush her hair aside after she'd fallen asleep in my arms. I wanted to look in her eyes when I sipped my coffee.

I had a lovely time. I wanted to know everything. She had a lovely laugh, I remember it from long ago...

i cleared this with the one i wrote it about before i noded it.
ask dizzy and katyana if that which begins on the Internet can be real.

There are a thousand things I wish I could tell you, and I can’t. I find this more troublesome than you can imagine. There is a wall and there is a vine but either I don’t have the fortitude to climb, or I fear what I will find once I peep over the edge.

Often when I think about you I feel like the matchstick girl, palm against the windowpane, staring in and wishing I knew what it felt like to really belong in your life.

I understand the need for arms-length communiques. I understand it better than even you do, probably.

It doesn’t mean I have to like it.

See this line here? There is my toe, inching forward. It knows better, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t itch.

Every once in a while, it happens that we stand palm to palm, and it’s a matter of who is wishing harder that they could slip through the looking glass and tumble over, give in to the abyss and wonder. And wonder.

Neither will budge of course, just stare and stare until the things that seem so backward and wrong will blur and sort of make sense; they have to, you see, because otherwise we’d go mad from it.

One day I will push a little too far and all this will shatter around me, a nightmare of broken things strewn before me, parading in front of my eyes and mocking my false bravado until I cannot help but fall on my knees and hope whatever benevolent souls that can forgive will do so.

Or maybe it won’t happen that way, but I refuse to budge, and thus remain
the girl with a palm against your windowpane.

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