I have been told I feel too intensely.
The death of a common spider puts the weight of the world on my shoulders,
even if it had not been my fault,
and i find joy in the idea more than the action,
because the fantasies in my head never lead me astray:
they always go how I plan, down to the exact detail,
and i've never had to beg my thoughts for forgiveness,
or pray that they'll be there tomorrow.
but I have never kissed the lips of my ideas or ran my fingers through its hair,
nor have I felt the warmth in their soul on a cold November night.
And although i feel too greatly on the idea of you-
the idea of what we were and what we could've been-
the same way I flow over a tabletop, crying over spilt milk,
I have found that if you feel everything with such great passion,
you will have felt everything all the same, and in turn, feel nothing at all.
And as overwhelming as this all sounds,
to feel with the force of mountains and cry like the rapids between them,
to feel with everything and nothing all at once,
is still better than the idea of your lips, the thought of your hair, the love in your touch,
and the memory of what once was.