I'm just crazy enough to leave you behind even though you're like nothing I have found or will find

I'm just crazy enough to leave you behind even though you're like nothing I have found or will find

I've got this boundless fascination in words, in words in art and words in poems and and words in songs and words on t-shirts and advertisements and bathroom stalls and the soles of our shoes, in what we choose to say and what we don't, what we type out for the world to see on our Facebooks and on the margins of our notebooks, in words in run-on sentences.  There's this talent, rare talent, that some people have, to string words together in a way that they're complex and layered with meaning but simple and beautiful and understandable too. 

And I have this fascination with "you", the word "you" and how it can be manipulated and contorted and reinterpreted to have so much meaning or absolutely no meaning at all.  "You" is you or it's my inner self or my one true love, or "you" is the recipient of my manifesto of hopes and dreams and lofty goals and  fleeting thoughts.  And sometimes "you" is nothing at all, no one and no thing and the vast endlessness of empty, or "you" is your you, the you that you want it/she/them/him to be. 

Maybe tomorrow, sense, although maybe not, maybe never, maybe next Tuesday.