To yearn is to know

Yearning; it silently gushes in like the waves and tenderly kisses your sandcastles, giving treachery a beautiful home. It creeps in like an echoing thought on a moonlit night and tears apart the roof, sheltering the universe you built in your dreams. It hangs fuzzy socks over the powerlines in the district of your heart, declaring war against any who dares to cross the line you ought to set. It lingers like the nauseous scent of forgotten perfumes in abandoned hallways, spraying mystical potion over the disenchanted. It medicates like the touch of autumn and everything else comes crumbling down.

To yearn is to know why some words are never written, why some paintings are never painted, why some songs are never sung and why some spaces are never taken up. To yearn is to know that getting close to someone can mean not being able to see them anymore. To yearn is to know that distance is the safest proximity.