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Sometimes I don't understand myself at all. I can't even write here anymore. I'm lonely, but not for you. I'm just lonely, and I don't have patience for people at all. My house becomes more and more ordered, less cluttered. Bits of my past fly out the window in preparation for forward motion. I think about you, I think about him and do nothing. As is expected. It's a mistake to assume I can't do something just because it's hard for me. It's a larger one to tell me I'll never be able to do it.
I'm having trouble wanting to be social.
I looked into your face for the first time today and found it tired. Now I wonder about your life but can't ask because that would be telling. I wonder about your home and why you are where you are. I suppose it was your laugh that made me look; the one that jeers the world is ending but it's no worse than yesterday and lights up your whole face. Do your plans end where you are now? I wonder. Happiness is such a rare thing and yet it's such a tragedy when we give up on it.
I dream of running my hands through your hair and watching your face soften even as I come to the conclusion that it won't, can't, happen.