The curves of your back are a mystery, like the color of your eyes. Sometimes you can't see the most defining parts of yourself, so it takes someone else to point them out. Reflections are misleading and it's not about lying anymore, it's just a blind way of seeing it.

Blind like when you stare at the floor when you walk, shielding yourself from the things you're scared to face. Like running in place, knowing you can get away, but part of you doesn't want to leave, you just want to sit and feel it pass by, invisibility is your safety. So at times we pick the simplistic way out by counting floor tiles and pacing our steps to avoid the cracks. But cracks are all we are, we fall through them, and in them we dwell upon failure and regret.

It's days like this, when I've memorized the chips in my nail polish, that get me thinking. I think about birth and death, love and hate, and they become more than antonyms. Without birth we would not have death, and without death we would not have birth, so are they really that different? or are they just said to be, maybe to create diversity in our world of sameness?

Without love we would not feel hate, because loving something, makes you hate everything else; since nothing else could possibly compare to the absolute perfection of this one thing you love so much. Right? You’ve felt it before. There are some people who make you feel helpless and weak, because you let them. You let them take advantage of your awe. You may not notice it, hell they might not notice it, but it’s there. Like the wind and the air that makes up the wind, your weakness blows away your strength.

So I guess this is why I am all alone. I am admiring a surrealistic figure, something that is of the same caliber and power as everything else, but is somehow risen above its equality, to sneer and laugh at those who are less, when in reality, that higher level does not exist. Nothing is superior to anything else.

You are not superior to me; I am not superior to you.

Even today. Today when I sit alone in the dark, running away, because I can, and because I don’t know what else to do. I’ve always been pretty good at closing up if I need to, it’s a skill you master from experience. But running makes it worse, because the problem is your shadow, following you everywhere, except in the dark, where everything blends, where nothing is and nothing isn’t.

Although, the tears are light in dark places, a relief to the pain, a cure to the plague we all seem to catch, and god you are so contagious. You’re the cut that never seems to heal, the cramps I get from fleeing your gaze. But don’t you know? I’m only trying to get away because I can’t even look at you without crying. It’s not because of what you’ve done, just the fact that I hate the way I feel, not feeling. And that’s where I’m at now, apathy and indifference to your actions. And it hurts not caring.

If wishes were ever granted, it would be spring now, and we would be on summer edge. But I have come to find that this is but a wish, and wishes are indeed never granted, even to those most deserving. So that is why it is still winter, and it is still cold, and miserable.

They say “it’s all in how you look at it” and I’m trying to find the brighter side. So I’ve come to the conclusion that I’ll have to force myself to accept. You are my best friend, and though I used to long for something more than that, that time has passed, and I have come to accept the things that are given to me with open arms. Yet a part of me knows, I am given nothing, and have nothing, and am nothing. Ah but, on the other hand, I am something, I am what’s left of the good things, and the bad, the mixture of memories and emotions and words. I am the dust that follows you around when the wind is out to play, I am in your eyes and in your mouth, and reminding you of the beauty in the world.

I am dust.