If I ever
push you away, I don't really mean to.
When I tell you I don't want to talk about it, I do. I am
just looking for the right words.
Give me a minute, and if I can tell you, I will.
I try to be a struggling mix of real and perfect at the same
time.
At the moment, I am working on the ratio.
When I get really quiet, sometimes it's because I have too
much to say.
I have thought of too many things to tell you all at once, and
I don't know what to say first.
I get immaturely jealous of anyone who gets to see you on a
daily basis.
I miss you really easily, but I also like that we can be apart
and still be okay.
Space is good, too.
I love the way we love some of the same things, and I love how
we love entirely different things.
My head is a complicated pile of thoughts and fears and
cravings and dreams and this tangled up nostalgia for the past,
and somehow, the future.
I am flawed and I am human and I am broken.
I am trying. I am one person and I am two hands and I am one
heart.
And I love you with all of that one heart and I am so glad
you're here.