Counting Steps

I'm in like with you

  I'm in like with you. It's one of the many downsides of being a hopeless romantic. I don't want to like you because I know you don't want to like me either;  it's just easier for you.

I wish there was a way for me to shut my heart up, you know? I don't want to think about you all the time. I have other things to worry about, like putting more air in my bike tires or making sure my cats are healthy.

God, I miss you so much. You've never said it back to me. You never say anything like that to me. But sometimes, in between the pauses of your words, there's something in the silence. I don't know what it is. I tend to mistake kindness for liking someone quite often, though.

You have no idea how often you're on my mind. Even that sounds like an understatement. You're in my mind. You're everywhere. In everything I touch. Every time I speak. You're in my family's faces, my friend's laughter. You're in the apps on my phone, the sheets on my bed. I feel the absence of you wrap around me when I pull my covers close.

I stopped by your house yesterday. I stood outside your window and called you. You were saying how sad you were and I hate it when you're sad. So I told you to look outside and I gave you an air hug. I could barely see you through your shaded window. You said you didn't want me to see you because you looked bad. That was so stupid of you to say. Do you have any idea how long I'd been yearning to see you? I couldn't care less what you looked like.

Even though I could hardly see you as you waved out your window, a part of my heart was filled. A small part of that empty space where you should be shrank just the tiniest bit. It's the closest I'd ever been to you in months.

After I left I apologized for showing up unannounced. You said it was OK because it made you happy.

That's all I wanted.

Holy hell I miss you more than anything.

And that makes me sad because you have no idea.