Returning to the Font

What is it about you that makes me want to write? To scream and cry and dance around like an idiot?

What is it about you that draws me in, even when I tell myself I won't waste anymore verbs or adjectives or nouns on you?

I hate you one moment and then I love you the next. I miss you and then I wish we had never met.

You wreak such havoc on me, emotionally and spiritually, sometimes physically. You make me want to laugh and write volumes of poetry and purple prose.

I want to kill you sometimes, remove the root of you from my soul. Others I wish I could kiss you or be held by you.

I'm so tired of these contradictions. Is it worth it? Will you be the muse that I need to stimulate the growth of the words in my garden? Or will you be my downfall, the weed that chokes everything else out but the hate and the tears and the unforgiveness?

I don't know anymore. I have no idea what I'm doing or where I'm going. I'm feeling things I keep telling myself I'm not and you are there asking how I am after so long?

Wasn't it you that said we had to stop talking? I may take the credit in some verses, but in reality it was YOU that said you needed to stop talking to me, but you follow me, haunt me, sabotage me. I don't get it. I'm so confused. Why? Why now?

I guess I'll take the chance, time heals all wounds, right? Can we rebuild? Do I want to? Why am I suddenly cold, just thinking about you and all that lies in the not-so-distant past?

God, I'm confused and you're a drug that keeps taking me higher and higher until I'm too scared to look down. I feel like I've lost track of who I am any time you are near. And you aren't near, but you are. You are as close as my skin and yet further than I can imagine. Why do I let this bother me?

And to think, the only bait you use is "how have you been?"