The weight of us both.
I see more of you every day now. I see it where there should have been pain. I see you in water. I see you in books and in lamps by the roadside.
Pettiness irks me. Attempts at greatness shatter me. I breathe heavy in the effort to remember how you must really be and heave a sigh of disappointment at every time I don’t see the image of you on surfaces.
You could never have expected this of me, of course- because you do not expect. I on the other hand, I expect the clouds to be a dark grey on a particularly windy evening. I expect the trees to shed their sparkling leaves on me as I pass underneath them. I expect smiles from strangers who have thoughts of their own to be lost on, and I expect strength in moments that there is only cold and darkness.
I expect of you to look into me and find me outside in your world too. I expect, and thus I break into two- the expectant and the reasonable, every time you brush my dreams gently into a bottle of ‘maybe’.
What madness is this? What obsession can be cured?
My greatest fear is what when you stand before me, I will fail to see you, blinded by the hope of you in everything in sight.