Fuck.
I can’t sleep to save my life. I can’t think of anything but your skin, your stinky hair and how much I absolutely and without question loved the shit out of you with every fiber of my being I hadn’t committed to reflexive humor or an antiquated and juvenile sense of survival.
For the first time in a long time I am living life like it still has possibility, like the road stretches forward as well as back. Nonetheless, when it is silent, when the record ends and Sean is asleep and the dull whine of the air conditioner muffles those little noises I make on the edge of slumber I am only and always thinking of you.
I know I can and should be happy with someone else, reveling in the glow of young love and flaw dismissal, tracing lazy designs on her skin with my callused fingertips and thinking of the mountains. I should be dreaming of words and ink and CNA certification.
Nicole.
I am thinking of you, now and most quiet moments.
I would rather give my fingers or my eyes than my heart to passing strangers. You need to give it back or come smother me while I’m sleeping. Time isn’t healing anything. Distance just taunts me with proximity. Pretending you don’t exist is stupid when I curl around you to go to sleep, intangible but crystal clear, keeping my arms just so, cradling nothing.
When I think of you you shine like diamonds in display cases, and it doesn’t diminish no matter how much I wish it would. I am embarrassing myself with this shit, and I mean every word. I’ll swear on anything you like.
I swear I’ll make it up to you.
