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, and I'm 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. When I get really quiet sometimes it is because I have too much to say, I have thought of too many things to tell you 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 easy but I also like that we can be
a p a r t
and we are both 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 for the future. I'm flawed and I'm human, I'm broken and I'm trying. I'm one person and have two hands and I have one heart and I love you and I'm so glad you are here.
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