Madame rateau j'ecoute?

So you let the love fill your heart and then there's so much of it you cannot hold it anymore, it needs to flow out,
so you let it flow into your hands, or into your mouth (I chose my mouth because I knew something wasn't quite right, and I knew if I let it flow into my hands and they got free I would get so hurt my ribs and lungs would collapse).
So you let it flow, you let it out, and then what happens is that it mixes with the air, and it blows in your face.
Ça t’éclate littéralement au visage. Y'en a partout. Ça coule sur tes cheveux et ça dégouline de tes yeux devenus sales.
There's no reciprocity, it's as simple as that.
That feeling of getting embarassed and hot and sweaty when (s)he's around, it's only you. The care you want to cover all of his being and spirit with, it just doesn't have anywhere to go. You only have to wait until this mess dries up.
You take a shower, you have a good cry, you smile to your colleagues when you feel you can, and hope it will dry soon. And it will, if you let it go. If you stop mourning what could have been and cherish what has been instead. If you let go of the idea that yes, it's fucking hard to find people you can talk with, talk about anything, and it's rare to find people you want to hug so bad it's like your stomach disappears completely when you suppress the urge to do it, because of all the uncalled and invasive feelings that were born somewhere somehow and were flattened at once on your head and now have nowhere to go.

So you think, you'll find a great escape in art, you'll get lost into somebody's painting, you'll carry on drawing lines from smoke from a cigarette stuck into some animals mouth and it will clean your synapses somehow, and you have good friends, and the weather is nice which lighten things up.

You think all this, but what you feel is a big black bird crying in your chest, squashing your heart in its claws, slightly on the left.
You feel sad as fuck as you bravely struggle against the terribly tempting idea of blaming yourself for everything.
You think all this, but what you feel is your heart hurting. At least it's there, c'est deja ca.

You think it will be ok tomorrow (and it will), but today, now, you get lost into your cup of coffee wishing you never met and never fell in love and never realised what unreturned love is.