My desire has changed, I do not seek your friendship anymore. The fear of loved ones dying and not having a last chance of saying goodbye is akin to my problem of perfectionism due to my need to see structure and organization. Nothing is perfect, and I accept that.
As you went up to Saratoga (and your horse naturally won), with confidence I can see that it is beyond your ability to analyze yourself for faults or be strong enough to accept the phrase "let's just be friends." You're not a shovel, and I am not your dirt. You are not abused and I am not your abuser.
I would lay defeated on the floor, praying at your kneels to reconsider, to be critical, to consider an inconvenient truth, but without mercy you laughed in nervous self-preservation and tried to conceal your hurt with whatever you could stick inside to runaway from the current situation.
Disassociated, numb, and unwilling to accept reality - I watched you walk away, daftly running into things with your eyes closed, jumping into large city street puddles, covering your ears with whatever feminist-approved popular song would drug you into the comfort of passive-aggressive self-righteousness and bigotry.
And there I was, the fool, on my knees, hoping to see more behind the eyes of a fallen angel. Praying with every inch of my soul that "she will come around, she will be mature, she will rise."
I see you falling down into the ocean floor, and with every ounce of my strength I attempted to raise you with me, but you kicked and punched. If I continued to work with you, we would sink together, but my inner Will does not allow me to do anything other than what is right and truthful.
A whirl of black hair and the angelic innocent face of a sad little girl sunk into the oceanic dark abyss, and I look above me, and saw a watercolor painting of beauty, dream, and Heaven above the surface of the water.
And I am there.
No matter how far away, I will always love you. But I am very far away - a million miles away.
