The blurred lines.

I don't remember the day we first met in details, I just remember your polite calculated smile, your short nods, the rare  comments on subject you weren't interested in and the short forced compliments.
I remember how off looking that scene was, you in a crowed, with people you claimed to be your friends and cigarettes you pretended to like smoking.
Like rainbow in a night sky.
Intriguing, but off.
I introduced myself and was instantly hooked. I loved how much you knew about rain forests and what species are in threat of extinction.
I got really interested in what you know about the stars and planets and other galaxies.
We discussed NDE's and mental illness and bad poetry.
I enjoyed talking to you about all the things that I didn't knew and I was amused by how much you knew about the world.
And I thought to myself, here is someone who can teach something.
And as intelligent and intellectual you were, there is one thing you didn't know about.
The night I told you I loved you, you looked at me with a hint of petty and said
'it is just chemicals in your brain.'
And you kissed me.
I held your hand with my fingers intertwined with yours but tour grasp was always loose.
And remember that time I told you that stars were aligned and I was lucky to have met you and you told me that I was childish. You made me feel stupid.
And I knew I was, but it was too late.