A shorter thing for someone in particular

You’re like water.

I constantly reach out, trying to touch, trying to feel you. But when I make that brief, gentle contact, you slip out of my reach, ever so slightly.

What I do feel of you is cold and dark, like the sea on a bleak winter night.

You’re like fire.

I come near you, and I feel warm, but I come too close, and I burn. And burning hurts. 

Like a moth to a flame, I come closer, closer, and closer, but only end up hurt in the end.

It’s awkward, to say the least. You want to be with me, but at the same time, you push yourself away. They say that opposites attract; why do the same poles repel?

It’s a distance that’s hard to cross, it’s something intangible, elusive, slipping out of your hands at the last moment. It’s a deadly balance, an impasse; if I come too close, I burn, and if I stay too far away, I die, cold.

I never imagined it to be like this, at any point in time. Jay Gatsby sings the same sorrows that I do, looking for that green lantern on the shore, throwing parties while casting sidelong glances into the crowd for the incalculable chance that you might be there sometime.

I think I’m not happy with where we are now,

But it’s a better place than before.

Wouldn’t you agree?