(N is for) Nearly

Warnings: lack of editing warning

He’s as beautiful as a poem, and just as hard to read. The sort of guy it could take a lifetime to figure out, wrapped up in the immediacy that screams of being in the middle of exam conditions with no time to do much of anything.

It’s easy to wonder, sometimes, if the poem is ever truly worth it. All that time, all that effort, every moment spent contemplating the way things fit together (do they even fit together? Does anything?) could be spent on figuring myself out, maybe. Maybe I need that focus more.

The words here don’t fit where they should, don’t slide against each other just right. Or maybe it’s just that it’s too right. But maybe that’s me. Maybe the words aren’t the issue and I’m the problem here. I’ve never once felt like I’ve fit into the poems I find myself in, doesn’t matter who they’re written by or for. So what if it’s me?

What if I’m the reason we’re only just hitting ‘nearly’?

But what if the lines he spins like webs aren’t as pretty as they seem when they hit the light right? They glitter and glimmer, and I could be lost for days in the promise there. But there’s something, something that catches in the back of my mind and lingers like a spider refusing to be shaken loose. Instinct? Or paranoia? Or the memory of the last glimmering words someone handed me, and the damage they left in their wake? Pretty or not, you can garotte someone with the webs you weave if only you try hard enough. Maybe what I’m feeling is just the memory of past hurts.

His words slide like they’ve been polished and practised to a shine, but how can anyone trust words that have been spoken so often, so much they could almost be just another line in a play? There’s no real romance in the well-rehearsed, just a vague sensation that every whisper has seen the ear of far too many others before me, has been collected at the end of another broken romance, boxed away for its next outing.

I don’t trust the words that flow easy, not when they’re that good. The lines he weaves touch my soul in a way that speaks of knowing me, inside and out, seeing my soul rather than the shell it’s housed in. So why does it feel not quite right? Why does it seem too good to be true?

Oh, but I want to lose myself in that poem for a while, study its angles and find where the angels and the devils hide within it. But how do you read a poem without being read in return? And how do you shield your heart from everything you want handed to you so perfectly it feels like a trap?

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