I wish I were a lot of things, but not as much as I wish I were what I'm doubting even God knows: what you're looking for. I'm sitting here, trying to elegantly write out what I feel, but I realize that until I beat into submission this beating heart of mine, and recognize my now admitted admissions, that writing ins't going to get me anywhere. It's a passive art, and I'm not even sure if my intentions are ever even correctly conveyed; yet, here i am. Maybe I should wish I were someone else, have another swing at cracking that deadly heart of yours. But then again, maybe I should wish to forget, save myself the trouble of piecing together the shards of my own, pathetically fragile heart, like a kid kneeling at the linoleum tiles of his kitchen floor, scotch taping his mother's glass ornament after shattering it into a million pieces in a game forbidden within the doors of his home. I'll take a moment to contemplate, only to discover that I could never do this; I could never forget, the scars would always remind me. So you're a ghost to me, a beautiful, haunting ghost, the essence of a person I long to touch again, to feel and smell again, but can't. I guess I should get used to this feeling, my consciousness tells me, It's the human condition. And that is all I am after all, a mere human, caught up in mere human emotions. I suppose it's true, is my conclusion, love is dangerous, wonderfully and beautifully dangerous, like fire.