The Pattern

A broken button of your shirt on my pillow.

Is the culprit of those scratches on my neck.

These days love leaves no mark on my skin,

Leaves no emotion in my mind.

Other than the thought of you going away.

My love chases a pattern of misery,

Few moments of happiness,

Rest are all unending happy endings.

Maybe this is what it feels like.
To be in love.
What would it be without a sad undertone,
Forming the perfect foundation for,
The rest of the life to sink in.

I expect too much from life.
From love; too much.
These are just probability points on the curve of possibilities.

We are nothing but two dots.
Getting closer in one frame,
Not meeting at all in another.

In a parallel universe you and I are the same person.
You are the legs, mind and liver.
Functional, precise and always ready to go.
I am the hands.
Those that touch your forehead,
Each time you think about something.

My realities are all an illusion,
One that I want you to believe in.
But, I know my reality lies to me.
Things are going to be harsh,
Things are going to be painful.
I want to step out of my illusionary dream right away,
And stop you.
Tell you that I love you so much that it will piss you,
My love will drive you away.

Our love is going to be like life,
Taking one sure step everyday,
To a certain death.