Prospect (n.)

Just the prospect of you
is enough to send me spiraling down
into this beautiful maze of unending ‘what if’s’

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You’re so beautiful yet so broken.
I keep piecing you back together
but one broken piece keeps disappearing after another.

You don’t want to be whole again
because you’re so used in your broken state
that just the idea of getting your pieces back together
means one day you will crumble again.

But here’s the thing:
you can keep hoping it doesn’t happen,
believe in the hope of staying whole
or just trust me to put you back together again
if you fall apart once more.

Why aren’t we together?

All this space between us? Unnecessary. Like letters completely ignored by the French yet still stuck in words and still making sense.

How do you not realize how difficult it is for a child to spell the French equivalent of Onion.

OIGNON.

WITH A FUCKING LETTER G.

And probably a misplaced letter I. Do they ever question the unpronounced letter in there? No. But they grow up to accept that to make sense of that word, that letter has to be there.

Thats what this space between us is. Now, the real trouble is growing up and accepting its existence.