I fuck things up with you because I get nervous, and because it's easy to.
I'm sitting here in the near dark writing myself sick about you.
It's 2 in the morning, and I have to wake up soon, but I know sleep won't come easy with you living in my head.
I'm tired and delirious,again.
I still have perfect faith that one day we will work this out, and we will make sense.
You are a feeling in my stomach. Like going too fast over a speed bump, or diving into a too shallow pool.
Can you feel it? It's like we're allergic to eachother. Only you're chocolate, baked potatoes, hot tea, air, water, fresh bread and pancakes with homemade syrup. And it's up to me to envision a life without all these things, but how could I? Your existence terrifies me, you look like fireworks, but sound like war time bombs going off from every direction.
This is a love letter, even if it doesn't seem like it right now.
Drunk is the best way to write this. It's also the best way to describe me in general. You've been here, you must know that I always have to be drunk on something.
If it's not love it has to be anger, or hatred. If I'm not drunk on excitement then it has to be sleep, or food, boredom,dreaming or depression. I think right now it's sorrow and self pity. Or scotch, I can't tell.
This is mundane, stupid even. But at least it's true.
All I can ask is that you love me well, and that I can love you better.
I miss you, Grace