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Was there ever a real name to the next best thing to love?
To still feel that amorous instinct but not admit that it’s strong enough to shed away reality,
Or in fact it was an illusion of reality.
To hold every emotion in the palm of your hands that you hold so delicately because you are so fragile to spill them all at once,
Every emotion but one.
To cry from a simple touch that was only charismatic and yet to give that sense of security that was long since gone from your memories,
To dry away the tears of both your pains and still share a familiar wound,
As the heartbeats beat together in a symphonic sympathy, you recognize how they too are out of order.
When the whispers of your name slip my lips the beats become faster and pound within my chest to an unbearable pain and satisfaction.
The perfection of love dangles in the midst and when the two figure out that they are nowhere near that feeling, it makes them stronger.
We are not yet one nor do we share that imminent bond of real love,
But that futile idea that we are meant for each other only fuels the feeling that you just might be the last thing on my mind before the dreams take over.
And I am perfectly fine with being just and only just attracted to you.