but I'm hoping at the gates, they'll tell me that you're mine
Wednesday, June 3
It's at that horrible point where I sit awake at five in the morning in complete darkness, save for the laptop screen, and see your face painted inside every song I listen to. I squeeze my eyes as tight as possible until spiders made of fractured light are crawling in the darker space behind my eyelids. This is the horrible point where I flirt with regretting all that I said and wanting desperately to say more. I'm trying to recapture that moment that was so the same three years ago while lying to myself about nothing having changed at all. I'd gladly say it all again. I hope you'd listen again and maybe let me hug you longer this time. But then again, I think I was the one who pulled away first. I should have breathed you in for as long as I could. Because now I'm breathless, but in the worst way possible. Everything is muddled at five in the morning.