Seventy Fifth

I realized today
not that I hadn't already known it for a while
I could never love a writer.
I could never love another writer,
another frenzied mind and obsessive fanatic of words.

words.

In the end that's all they are, aren't they. They're not real. not toucheable. Not felt. They're good intentions, maybe. They're heartfelt, sometimes.
But they're not real. Not actually.
I think I...need..someone to show me something real.
Allow me to feel something, see something, hear something.
Not another text, another screen, another scripted promise.
Something big. And undeniable.

"Yes, dear, I see your words. They are lovely, just like you.
But whatever will I do with.. more words?"

Seventy Fourth

Yes, my friend.
Yes I do realize that it isn't fair.
And I know that perhaps, though I doubt any of us have any real say in the matter that is fate or connection or love, perhaps I do indeed deserve more. Perhaps all this karma I claim I need, and deserve, and have theoreotically saved up for this one moment, is settled elsewhere. Perhaps I am indeed wrong. It wouldn't be the first time, no. And really I have no right, no real heightened right to be righter, here, than I ever was. It is entirely possible that I am blinded, just as blind as you think it, just as silly, just as wide-eyed. But I don't think I am. And really that is all that ultimately matters, isn't it. Isn't it.
I know it's quite possibly wrong. I know I might deserve more. I know it might be less, at this moment, than anything I've wanted, anything you believe I deserve.
But trust, as I do. Trust, I suppose, in the impossible possibility that maybe miracles are not miracles, but events and the very karma you claim I deserve, just happen. It happens. It all happens, all of it, and everything.
Life happens.
Trust that it will happen to me, too.

Seventy Third

I realize you're not done loving her.
but I'm just starting to love you.

So no.
I can't let you go either.
Not quite yet.