"I HAVE A CONFESSION TO MAKE," SAID HE.

Of all the gauzed, self-deprecating secrets I hold, there is one that clings most blatantly to the innermost folds of my deepest compassion.
And I truly, genuinely, hate myself for it.
Rarely does it rear its ugly head, but when that time comes, I have little capacity for restraint or even the sheer logistical cognation that runs so steadily in my veins. All reasoning is cut off. Deluded are my sobering understandings, and suddenly, a frightening world that I, myself, have created zooms into focus, crystallized and picturesque and so very, very attractive.
Perhaps it’s that glamour I cling to. Not the versatility or spontaneity of the situation, but those fleeting glimpses of something so imagined, so surreal, so relentless and uninviting. I know I cannot stay in those instances, yet the temptation to do so goes far beyond my knowledge.
[Editor’s Note: This "one" I speak of suddenly illuminates an "other" that forces me into my precarious state of illusion. I used to imagine that their circumstances were far unaligned; they were indifferent towards each other and hardly compatible in their mental appeal. Now, I understand them much differently. Especially at this moment.
In truth, one is far more distant and unattainable a dream (if you can call such realities "dreams"). The other stands in front of me, yet is no more likely a realization than the other. Both free themselves in my thinking far too often, yet this "other" holds nothing close to the illustrious glitter that blocks my gazing thought and sweeping palpitations whenever the first comes into view. ]
These "dreams" are unlike any other I see around me. I have created beings, deities, identities around them, so as to further pursue them in the earthiest of understandings, to make my trivial needs more systematic and far less symbolic. Yet symbols they are: icons; they stand as a mere transport for that which I seek in ridiculous vanity.
Again and again and again without fail, I, myself, rear the head of undignified longing, forcing my way into stalls and mirrors, attaining not the beauty to impress nor the charisma to enthrall; instead, I stand hollow and hallowed, someone else's transport for a deity greater than I. I wish not to be this shrine of someone else's desires! I wish not to be their conduit for sanctity, just as I have unfairly shoved the burden upon them, lacking knowledgeable consent or reciprocity for my deeds.

He looks at me, but not at me.
He looks at her, whoever she is.
I realize that she is all I'll ever be.
So, in utmost retaliation, I look at him.
There we stand, gazing longingly into each other's eyes, never even glimpsing one another.
And, perhaps, that's the safest place for me to be.