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11:31 PM
Emma doesn't need to tell me that she loves me for me to understand that she does. Her eyes get lighter when she looks into mine. Her voice gets softer when she's telling me about her day. She knows that if you trace the freckles on my face, they can make the constellation Leo. I don't need reassurance to know that she loves me, but Emma does, and I can't give it to her.
Emma loves poetry, maybe just as much as she loves me, and I've found myself writing and speaking more poetically because of this and I just want to say that I am hopelessly bound to tragic endings. I end up enjoying hitting the ground more than I enjoy the fall, but that's not the case with Emma and that makes me uncomfortable and it's scary and it's sad because Emma is not hopelessly bound to tragic endings, and I'm afraid that I might be her first.
I'm hearing her speak, but I'm not really listening. She doesn't make my heart flutter and she doesn't drive me crazy, but she and I are both lonely and she and I both need somebody and that's all that matters right now.
