They are not the same place.

It is passion that has brought me here.

/It is patience that has kept me here.

//It is being unstable that has kept my eyes (and heart) remained on y o u.

My thoughts are flooded with vulgarity and spite at the very thought of it. It's not the mere fact that you've moved on; it isn't even the fact that of all people, it is him;

It's because I'm selfish/unrealistic/ignorant and the fleeting thought that I had real estate in all of this.

You were never good at standing still. But what should I expect: you're a woman.

It's ironic. I've always found you to be dependable and at the same time a bit dependent. You don't even know yourself without someone else - tagged along on your arm, in your mind, on your bed.

It's rant; It's rambling; It's whatever you hear that you let f>a>l>l at your feet because you despise my voice and the thought of the word-------

us.

As if instead of turning you on it turns your stomach and turns you away from me to a turn straight to him, and hell --whoever he is isn't me and it turns me off;

And as stubborn as I am, I see him in a burning car, in a crashing plane, a ticking bomb to his chest

-But it's too realistic-

Because I rather the magic, a transformation, a change of heart that could miraculously make you look back and see how much you have it wrong; (insert sneer here) Because I pretend you're unhappy when I know you smile just like you did when we (made love (or whatever it was))

All men have the capacity to tear your heart to shreds, babe. - but why couldn't it of been me?

Oh, let's take for instance the distance. Let's take into context the sex

Let's burden ourselves with concern and please excuse the excuses

Because we all live by the cycle and although we have heard the words before, we refuse not to repeat them, but for the sake:

-We met at the wrong time..

-We met in the wrong place..

-It wasn't you, it was me-and-you..

-I love you, but I'm not in love with you because I'm in love with him, or I'm in love with the fact that he isn't you, or he loves me, or he's just a band-aid over a scar that you would've given to me if we would've just remained in a perfect romance with blushes upon our cheeks and parks and plays and beaches and crazy after-hair and .. and ... and .... and ...

And even my speech is ridden with foul punctuation and insane banter about a woman that only existed to me and you can tell that I've been chasing my tail for the past few hours with this new knowledge that has been thrown upon me.

Seeing you move on is like not seeing at all.

It's like looking through a telescope that is out of focus. Everything is closer but it is just out of place, and in this case, out of mind. The back burner was never a place I was used to. Without you was never a place I expected.

But there you are. And here I am.

And for once, they are not the same place.