Hope.

When such hope begins to burn in my system, I panic. And for good reason. I am putting myself in a vulnerable position because of this hope. Don't I always say that hope leads to heartbreak? And I honestly believe that. Slowly, I am becoming attached to the experience of being able to just talk with you, of being said goodnight to. Then I wonder if it's you or if it's the attention I am snagging from you that has this warm feeling circling in my chest. 

So close.

Right there. So close. Surreal? I think I panicked. Not quite sure, though, because it's hard for me to even remember correctly. Was I even breathing? Probably not. Shaking too, undoubtedly.

Dance.

I just want someone to dance with.

Calculus.

It makes my brain hurt. A lot.

Thinking.

Does it break my heart? Of course. Every day, into more pieces. This is not exaggerated. I never thought of myself as quiet, much less silent, but lately, I have been. The distance that wedged itself between me and my happiness, I've decided, wasn't the world. It wasn't bombs or burning buildings or loss or pain. It was me. My thinking. The cancer of never letting go. It's ignorant bliss. It’s painful to think, and tell me, what did thinking ever do for me? I think and think and I've only thought myself out of happiness, but never once into it.

Mmm

You don't want to reach the last page of a good book.

You find yourself stalling. You read the book in bits, rereading each line, savoring its beauty. You go back to previous pages and delight yourself with their words again. You reluctantly move forward with the reading, joyful that you did and yet saddened that you are getting closer to the end where there would no longer be any mystery as to the further contents of the book.