I can taste the slightly bitter disappointment at the back of my throat, weariness hanging off my limbs and I know without looking at the clock it's 11 again. No no no no, it can not be.
I see you everyday but I think about you just the same. We talk everyday but I feel I haven't heard you in a while. I would like to. You seem to be in thought, there's something cooking in the cauldron inside you and I can feel the steam on my palms. What is it, honey? Tell me. Tell me everything. Till you scare me away. Only that you can't. You're not here. What is it? Speak to me. I would like to help you, let me absorb all your problems and all that you mourn about. Let me fill you up with everything good. I want to. I want to. I want to.
You're disappointed. Aren't you? I can't remember the last time I said it, but I love you. You're everywhere around me. In what I hear, what I see, what I say. Our words sync a lot now.
I am tired and perhaps you're tired of me being tired. I am parched despite the empty bottles littered around. Believe me when I say this, I've got so much more inside of me. Please give me some more time. I can do more, I can do better, I can.
I am trying,
I am trying,
I am trying.
I am surprised how I am filled with love yet budding hatred that rises and falls, rises and falls, but never goes down. Brittle nails and stiff knees. The time is ticking. An hour has passed but I'm still here.
I wonder what comes out of creating, the purpose of putting one word after another, what for? I like to think my fingers are pulling the threads right, forming something that hasn't been formed yet but it's more likely for the threads to be tangled and some even broken. I do not believe in saying something that hasn't been said yet. There's been a trillion literates before you, yet you dare think what you say is different? Somehow unique? It's not. If you're lucky, it might be a reflection, it might be a replica of a thought. How brilliant it is to find a soulmate from the past who has passed centuries ago. How tasteful.
Afterall, what is the purpose of it all if not to long for someone?
The world is filled with creators and yet empty of it. And I am so sick of finding meaning in my own empty words.
Your kindness is contagious, it touches me, goes through me and back. It tastes sweet, chilly, like an ice cream--the kind that melts on your tongue. Light and fluffy. My neck is bent and aching, haven't I been docile enough? I refuse to organize my thoughts anymore, why must I make sense?

I shan't.