I feel sick to my stomach.
Is it my bipolar disorder? Is it you?
Am I using you as a license to wax poetic?
Perhaps. Perhaps not.
Maybe I’m writing because I have to—because all that is inside needs to come out—it needs to pour out of me (as we speak)
All I know is that I look for you even in my dreams.
All I know is that I imagine you imperfectly, although you are truly perfection.
All I know is that I am alone but I know you are not. For some reason that is both comforting and uncomfortable.
You are with her. I am without you. You are not lonely. I am lonely as fuck. See how it works?
I hope that she is magic, because if she isn’t—babe, it isn’t worth it.
I wonder why I write as if I were speaking to you. Maybe I wish I were speaking to you. Maybe this is the only way I know how to communicate something about you to the universe hoping life is like that novel The Alchemist and the universe can conspire to achieve my happiness.
Maybe this is truly romantic—an unaccomplished what could be. Maybe if it weren’t all this pain and suffering it wouldn’t be true romance.
All I know is that I will write about you.
All I know is, in the words of the film The Piano, “my mind has ceased upon you.”
Perhaps something will happen in the future. Perhaps not.
Maybe we will be together. Maybe not.
Anything is possible and in your own very words,
“Never say never.””
So I’m not saying there will never be unity, but I’m not saying there will.
I’m saying I’m stuck in the unfortunate in-between, the already mentioned “what if?”
The very “why the hell not?” I ask myself every day.
Why the hell not?! I wish I could scream. I also wish I could scream your name to the top of my lungs. Maybe you would hear a ringing in your ears (ha!, if only) Maybe you wouldn’t hear anything.
I feel sick to my stomach because this reality of your existence without me pains me.
Is it my bipolar disorder?
Nope, it’s definitely You.
I wish I could Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind the hell out of your memories and you wouldn’t exist anymore but the memory of your voice is too sweet to forget.
Sorry to wax poetic but it is fucking lovely.
Sorry to wax poetic but you are fucking amazing
Sorry to wax poetic but I fucking adore you.
Finally, sorry to wax poetic but love seems too little of a word to describe my feelings for you.
Let’s just say there’s a beloved held within deep inside and perhaps in another life, we were together.
Let’s just say two souls entwined make One.
Let’s just say we’re twins—forever separated by Time.