snap of the fingers.

With a mere snap of your fingers would the tectonic plates shift; in command of such a powerful force are you. A mere singular decision would remove the inch wide space of separation. Such a small space, such a small place; too small a place for more than two – I don’t mind competing for you. What do you expect man to do when he senses the tension between me and you… sit idly by and let it all slip through? The more you try to hold on, the faster the sands of time doth slip through. Slipping through, slipping through, hope you feel fickle too. Unethical, perhaps; the law of the land – not gonna let you slip through my hands. Albeit this situation was not in my plans, this undeniable feeling, like fireworks when you reach for my hand; what’s a man to do when he finds his entire being living inside you? No good at probability, no more than I am at the lottery, but you’re a multiplication of multiplications – tell me, how is this not a winning of the lottery; what’s the probability? Move mountains, drain the seas; persistence is key, that is if I wish to take you home with me. Holding of hands, a playing of hair, the way you make me feel is so unfair; hoping to be a wrench in the calendar of your plans. One day you’ll look back and realise what a mistake you made, and one day you’ll reflect on the failure to act on a required redirect. But I guess it’s in your nature – don’t fix it if it ain’t broke, right? But I guess it depends how you define broke, right? If one has only ever driven a car firing on two cylinders, the thought of firing on all four seems out of this world, right? Almost impossible, no? Wrong. I implore you to look beyond the present, throw your glance towards the shadows cast by the horizon of time; who do you want to be on the day you die? Connection condensed as if a higher power were purposefully pressurising the world to speed up the process; I’m not superstitious, or maybe I am, but to me, it seems like a fairy tale that the Universe is conspiring to prevent from ending.  Conservative improvements, a subconscious invoking of deep-rooted beliefs that one must cling to any positive thing. Fear of change, that may be true, but I cannot deny the potential nested inside the beautiful sculpture that is you. Illogical and probably futile are my attempts, but I can sense that you’re atop that metaphorical fence. My imagination paints a beautiful picture; conversation, connection, affection… I’m gonna miss ya. Wish you could see, wish you could see, how much better off you would be if you were standing next to me. 

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