Still searching

Every time I say, "No", my imagination behaves like a little kid, tugging on the arm impatiently, jumping up and down.

"why can't you just admit it?" comes the persistent whine, "that he would be the Abercrombie to your Fitch, the oasis to the dry desert you've become? Is it too much to fathom that his stares make you wonder what he sees? That his every joke, laugh, and comment makes you jilt your head back and throw your hand upon his shoulder? Why won't you imagine it?

And how do I respond to the side of myself that keeps telling me that? How does one maintain a firm grasp on sanity when they see their desire walk in front of them cute as hell, on two legs?

I give my imagination a glare. "Remember what happened last time?" I remind it stringently. "I let you run wild before and even followed everything you said."

Again whining, "This time will be different. This time things will be different; Everything is different"

Easily believing and secretly hoping it was right, I agree.

Things were different. He was different. But a part of me never changed. The part of me that stayed silent. Intelligently waiting for the right moment in the end to whisper, "I told you so".

El fin.