Lying to myself

I savor the brisk Friday afternoon on campus, witnessing freed students cut through the wind rather than greeting it. They step like mice; must mean their next engagement is important. But it’s disheartening—even at ten past three I see serious, if not grim, faces. I catch you breaking through the human commotion with ease. I could infer people were repelling off you instead, but it’s always difficult to tell. Either way, you stand there as if you were the pinnacle of independence. You look like you can rule the world. You don’t want company. And you at least don’t deserve my company. 
So why am I your prisoner? How come obsession thwarts me from wiping you out of my mind? I’ve tried many times. Sometimes I’ll maneuver my thoughts ‘till I’m certain all I’ve known about you is a ruse. You’re not an admirable delinquent, just another clever mastermind ready to strike. You should be a mistake; you should be the test some higher power has sent to trick me into stumbling. 
But I want to stumble. You’ve made everything confusing, if not interesting. The world all of a sudden becomes a place worth and not worth living in, knowing I can dedicate myself to a fantasy, a ghostly vision that will never come true.
I am the pawn. You are the knight. And at the moment, you are winning.

Lucky I’m getting picked up soon.