may i be so bold as to offer a preface for the following?
you are devastatingly beautiful, and it seems that in my seclusion i have an endless supply of words and songs and poems to overanalyze and deconstruct my feelings for you. what is one more?
i am dangling...i dangle from your neck, hanging there as you lean over to lace your shoes, to pack your bag, to make love...i swing like a pendulum rhythmically back and forth, under the illusion that i'm vacillating between two people, when the truth of the matter is that i was always unexplainably and inextricably connected to you. i was always looking for you...in every mouth i've kissed, in every late night conversataionalist i've bantered with, in every film i've watched, in every walk i've taken, and in all the songs that i felt were speaking directly to me. is this love? is it obsession? or are obsession and love cosanguineous? are they birthed at the same depth, at the same time, twinned from within the darkest, dampest corners of our psyche? it seems the essence of their existence remain with us always, shaping our character with the great master's tool from which was forged with the fire of fantasay, and cooled with the cumbersome breath of desire. we are thus rendered incomplete, but our love of obsession, or obsession with love, provides us with the comfortable illusion that we are whole. but i have realized that you do not complete me, rather you better and enhance my being, my existence...and i love you for it.