I was infatuated with the idea of you. The idea that you could be the person I’d call to grab lunch with, the person I’d cuddle up to on lonely nights, the person I’d talk to when no one else seemed enough. You had the potential to fulfill that idea and bring it to life but we killed it long before it even had a chance to take a breath. I’m just not sure if it was more my fault than yours.
I spent so much time letting my mind run wild with the beautiful impossibilities of days spent together, nights turned to mornings, meaningful kisses; I never stopped to think of the alternative, that this could remain as stagnant as it is. This interaction – we can’t even call it a relationship – is stale. It’s like a wind up car you give to a child. It spends brief increments of its life being constantly used and abused until it reaches that point where it becomes uninteresting and no longer does the job it was made to do. The toy is put away, unwound and forgotten, until someone decides to turn the knob one more time just to see if it will still tick.
Had this been someone else, I’d have told them they were crazy. That they should walk away. Cut ties and find someone they can actually love. But I am not. I am that wind-up car. I am always waiting there, for you to turn me and see that I still tick. Tick, tick, ticking always just for you.