going crazy

just words and rambling.

I thought I knew what I wanted with you. I thought that was nothing. I thought wrong. OR maybe I didn't, I don't know. Maybe I'm just so alone right now I'll take anything that's thrown my way, maybe I don't want you at all. I just don't know. I don't know what love is, but I'd like to. I'd like to be able to describe that feeling, or try to, and even though I may not make sense, I'd love to feel like an idiot trying. I wish I believed in love.

The truth is, I miss you. The way you held me, kissed me, tried it on with me. It was so sweet in a bitter way. It scared me, to tell you the truth, because I think you were the best person I've ever met. I rarely see you, but you still hold a big place in my heart as a friend. I look forward to seeing you all the time, no matter how awkward our meetings would be. And I'm still worried that you would cheat on me, and I'm still worried that you would hurt me, but I know now that I want the chance to be hurt. I want to know that something was so good in my life, that it would cause me tears, though not having to cry would be better. I was running away when I started dating him. He was like a scape goat. And Im sorry for upsetting you when I chose to see him, and I realise that I may have blown my one and only chance with you, but I pray every night that one day I can call you mine, even just for a little while. I think about you all the time. Sometimes I wish you were lying next to me in bed, or riding in the passengers seat of my car. Sometimes I wish you were sat with me when I'm crying, just to see you're eyes, then maybe things would be a little better. I want to hug you shamelessly andrun my fingers down your back. I want all of that. I want you.

But you'll never know how I feel, because I'm too afraid to tell you. I'm too afraid to tell you how you inspire me, how many stories I've written about you. On this site infact. I'm too afraid to tell you that everytime I listen to my favourite songs, I think of you. It's like... you are my song. Maybe when he gos home, things will go back to what they were. Maybe pretty soon you'll be making drunken passes at me and I'll be waking up next to you in the morning. Maybe.

 

Author's Note

This isn't here for criticism, or sympathy at that. But while it's down on paper (or webpage), it's not tearing me up inside.