Listen to my Heart Pound. Listen to the Love Sound.

You're lying to yourself if you think that you didn't know. That your emotions were fooling you. That you truly thought you wanted to be with me.

If you had felt anything like I did, you wouldn't have followed your question of consummation immediately with a what if.

"Will you go out with me? If it doesn't work out, please promise me we'll still be friends?"

I was taken aback when it was asked. The thought would have never crossed my mind. I agreed simply because I was so sure, so sure that it would never come to that. We'd been skirting the issue for months and when d-day finally came I couldn't do anything but entertain my neuro-chemicals as they fired randomly as if in sleep. I had such a rush of endorphins and adrenaline I doubt I could have walked a solid line if accosted by a suspicious authority figure.

So I said, of course we'll still be friends.

But it didn't turn out that way, really, did it? We fought for a long time. Too long. Every day with no sign of you, nothing but short quipped answers to questions, nothing to indicate you had any interest in me at all. I'm sure, from your standpoint, it seemed the same of me. I holed myself up, I cried and ate gummy bears. I didn't frequent our internet haunts for some time. I avoided you. Perhaps not consciously, perhaps so.

We moved past it. We're back to the way we were, as if our whole innuendo had never happened. We're skirting the issue again.

It kills me everyday, but still I want it. I don't want to go back to avoidance. If we never again reach the benchmark of relationship, I can live with that. I'll be lonely a lot and if you leave me, I'll settle for someone new and different and not nearly as in tune with my emotional parameters as you are. Not nearly as good as you.

And when you ended things, you said, "What if I find someone new?"

I could never leave you for someone new. Never.
I could settle.
I could pretend.
I couldn't ever actively leave you.


That is the difference between us.


It may seem sporadic, these breakdowns of existentialism I am prone to. Months go by that I seem emotionally stable and then suddenly, there I am again. A puddle on the floor. It's been over 8 months since our relationship ended, four times the length of time that it lived. What does it mean that the wounds are still as fresh as they were the day they were carved? What does it mean that I've gotten so talented at covering them with gauze and forgetting them for days or weeks at a time?

I think I'm dying.

Pyloric Romance

Everyone assures me it's platonic. It isn't. Platonic is I care about you and I want to help you with your homework and know everything that happens with you and all your girlfriends and I want to keep you safe and spend time with you and know you're happy, while at the same time having a completely separate life on my own with separate relationships and separate events.

Not this.

Platonic is the kind of relationship you have with a brother or a sister or a good friend you've known your entire life and couldn't see yourself thinking any differently of.

Not this.

Platonic is a cop out. "I love him, but it's only platonic. He's like a brother to me." is a symptom of a girl with no hope left. A lie she tells others in hope that she'll someday believe herself.

She wishes she was gullible enough to believe the lies she tells herself.

Not this.

I am one hundred and infinity percent sure that none of that applies to me. I care and I want happiness for him.

But all I want is him. I just want to latch on and never let go until I'm completely absorbed and living unnoticed and incarnated as a pillow-soft cushion to take the strain off his heart. I go to sleep thinking about him. I wake up thinking about him. I spend my nights dreaming and my days noting all of my life events to be later told in a dramatic fashion in hope that they might ignite a smile or chortled laugh from him. I live for those moments and those moments alone. That is my livelihood. I see no other way.

I would live this way a thousand years, nursing that burning hope deep inside me and preying on every scrap of compassion and inclusion he sent my way.

He owns me. His choice of phrasings can build me or break me. His wants and needs unconsciously become my own. I follow him loyally and make sure the hem of his robe never touches unworthy ground.

I wouldn't change it for anything.
I couldn't want more, unless to have him turn and lift me from the ground with ambition to hold me for eternity. Or, even for a moment. I'd gladly drop back down to my knees.

Every time I touch you a fire ignites in my fingertips and runs it's course through my body jostling nerves I'd forgotten existed and waking the butterflies that hibernate in my rugae.