If I ever push you away, I don't really mean to.

When I tell you I don't want to talk about it, I do. I'm just looking for the right words.

Give me a minute, and if I can tell you; I will.

 

I try to be a struggling mix of real and perfect at the same time.

At the moment, I am working on the ratio.

When I get really quiet sometimes, it is because I have too much to say,

I have thought of too much to tell you all at once, and I don't know what to say first.

 

I get immaturely jealous of anyone who gets to see you on a daily basis.

I miss you really easily, but I also like that we can be a p a r t and we (but more you,then me) are both okay.

Space is good, I guess.

I love the way we love some of the same things.

And I love how we love entirely different things.

My head is a complicated pile of thoughts, and fears, and cravings, and dreams,

And this tangled up nostalgia for the past and somehow, the future.

I am flawed and I am human and I am broken and I am trying.

And I am one person and I am two hands and I am one heart.

And I love you, and I am so glad you are here.