I can feel myself feeling…
[stupid things again]
these old things but I won’t.
You say sometimes but you didn’t mean sometimes. You meant never.
You say say say say
But I meant I do. And I do and I did and I have and I will and it’s so…
It’s sick how it affects me. How your trite, meaningless…ill-defined…vague…noncommittal…words…
[I love you]
just say that [you won’t] and mean that [[you can’t]] and come and be mine [[dreams]]. Come and don’t make it shitty. Come and let me wrap up in you and let you wrap up in me and be like
all those things we wanted.
I have been told that writing to you is like writing to my demons. My demon shaved off his sideburns and put blond streaks in his hair. Someone who has a penchant for over-analyzing (me) might think (wish) you went blond when I went black so we’d have a bit of the other, always.
But we don’t believe it, do we?