How much you/I/we love.

I don’t think I’ll ever understand how much you love me. I’m reading this book and weeping because it’s so beautifully written. I want to write like that. I want to tell the world how much you did for me. How amazing you’ve been my entire life.

You have always been there. You worked a lot but you were there when we were kids. Remember the times you came home from work when I was learning how to ride a bike without training wheels? And you’d push me. Over and over again. After a long day at the office. Still in a button down and a tie.

I love the childhood you gave us. It was colorful and sunny and rich in experiences. When I think about how much I love you, I feel my heart pull and my tear ducts well. Before I know it, I’m crying. It’s always been like that. I don’t think you’ll ever understand how much I love you. But I’ll try to explain anyway.

I don’t think we’ll ever understand how much we love.

Not interested.

What is it to the art of conversation that some people have so naturally?
Listening.
Why is it so hard to listen?
Because listening is active?
You’re not physical moving per se but you have to tune-in.

He’s a great listener.
I miss those conversations.
The ones that keep you up all night.
The intimate ones that happen in the quiet container of the car.
He’s a great driver.
I miss those car rides.
The ones that happen late at night.
I always felt safe when he was driving a car.
In regards to whatever relationship/friendship/fuckedupship we had,
we were both pretty reckless.

Now I know I was responsible for my own suffering all that time.
By choosing to not
remove him from my life.
By letting him lurk in the periphery
and appear when most (in)convenient.
By leaving the door open.

Well now the door is slammed shut.
Cemented shut.
I fucking burned the house down.
Good riddance.
It was for the best.
Because now I get to build something brand new with someone else.
Because even if he should reappear somehow,
I’m not interested.
Repeat as many times as necessary.

Rewrite the script.

I wonder if he’ll text me again.
I’m curious about him.
Born there. 
Raised here.
Wordly.
I could reach out first.
We’ll see about that.
I better keep my shit together.
That’s aggressive self-talk.
At least I notice these things.
And that’s the first step to improving.
Now re-write the script.
When I see him next, I’ll shine.
Because I’m a goddman star.
Better?

Great.

I’ve been thinking about you.
I don’t know what it is.
And then I start to think
about where I was a year ago.
Unraveling.
Uprooting.
Coming undone.
You were there.
Remember?
You were great.
Are great.
I hope you have what you want.
I hope you find what you’re looking for.
Because I don’t know what I want.
But I think I found something great.

I’ve been thinking about you.
Not great.

Typos

Typos are a trigger.
It means I didn’t double check the work.
I didn’t take the time.
I rushed.
It says something about me.
Depending on the context.

A typo at 8am on my day off
is very different
from any other typo.
Right?
Sure.
We’ll go with that.

I’m still annoyed.
And a little anxious.
We’re working on it.

Never Not

I may never
not think about certain people.
Certain boys. 
Ghosts of my past
that I look for any excuse to let out
and indulge
even just for a second.
When that song plays.
Or I add it to a playlist. 
When that bottle of champagne appears.
Or I’m in bed alone.
In the times between the ‘busy’.
I start looking.

I may never not.
But I might just.