try to fathom why even after you�ve shattered the fragile glass that keeps my illusions from being brutally stolen from me i still get the urge to take your hand, just your hand
trace the curve of your fingers skin on skin, empty air molecules in between, barely significant enough to make a difference.
i sift my Fiction from my Fact do it in broad daylight away from the haunting melancholy of the face of the moon at night and you�re next to me, coaxing me along, and the sliver of space between us has never seemed so wide.
my Fiction is sifted from my Fact now i even know the Truth the way your bible paints my cathartic picture black. you helped me shatter the glass, remember? i should thank you but the words are stuck in my throat.
it�s no use anymore. try to fathom why i still think about you relentlessly, just like old times, taking me back to where it all began: the third-floor window, Wednesday afternoon, your smile a refrain that has been repeated one too many times it�s overkill now, you and i both know it.
but (there�s always a but) rationality is not a factor; we can talk economics all day long but the truth will always remain:
it�s Literature that will always matter even if you�re not the one that will fill up the cavity perpetually masquerading as my heart.