Dear @!$^,
Why, why did you pick me? And before, her? Why'd you choose us? Our 'looks', our humor, our lives, our oddness, our clothes, our boobs... what? Why did/do you love her? I don't ask a lot of questions. I'm generally okay with leaving things that already happened-that we can't change- alone. In the past. Where they belong. But tell me this, @!$^...
What happens when the questions we didn't ask about the past become the answers to our future...?
How much regret can one handle in a lifetime? Sometimes the air around us feels sticky- like no matter how hard I try to punch it it always springs back with more depth than before. I want you to hear me! I'll never deserve you, you'll always be just out of reach.
I love you.
I love you!
You know what I just randomly thought of? I just realized that with glasses on, the world is clearer, I can see better. But with them off, it's wayyy more comfortable... except I can't see. Can you sense this metaphor, forming itself between the lines? Now it's forming on the tip of my tongue. Maybe when we really (let ourselves) see, we get hurt, or pained, and that's why we don't like to ask questions- get answers we don't like for fear they won't be the ones we wanna here. So we keep our "glasses" off to protect our hearts and the lives we know as ours. You know?
Do you read what I'm getting at?
We let the grey facts hang in the atmosphere where we tell ourselves they belong. Just so we don't have to taste the murky, frightening consequences of confession. I think we'd rather have our nice little not-so heart-to-hearts every once in a while to feel good about our relationship than lay it all out on the table. The bad the ugly and the outright despicable. All of it, every singly dirty little detail fanned out on the tablecloth of our hearts as we both sigh in relief and squirm in the new black and white world we've unlocked.
Tell me it's not true.
Tell me.
Tell me we are real.
Tell me.
Tell me, please just...
Tell me differently.
