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I know you, but I don’t understand you. I so terribly wish I could understand you, because even though I may know you better than you know yourself, that’s not enough. It’s never really enough, is it?

I wish I could comprehend the twists of your thoughts and the turns of your heart. I’m desperately curious to decipher your fears and why you run away the way you do, whenever you do.

I can predict your next words, I know your next smile and you next sigh. I can read the sadness in your eyes and I know that’s desire in your breath. I can tell you’re lonely. And maybe lost. And I can see you’re searching for something. I can even tell what that something is – you long for solace. But from what and from whom? From me? From the world? From yourself?

I wish I could understand you better than I do. I only manage to scrape the surface of your being. You have depths, you have dark corners which I have never dared to truly explore. You have a light in yourself which I know is there, wanting to burst out, but you stifle it. Why?

I have a lot of why’s. Just like a 3-year old, I’m dreadfully, annoyingly curious. Maybe too curious for my own good.

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