Fuck this.
Fuck my hang ups.
Fuck these walls.
I am fucking writing.
I realize that I feel comfortable there. I feel comfortable with you. This is my normal protocol . . . but you feel comfortable too. More than comfortable. And you understand, understand what I need, understand what I want . . . without words. I don't have to tell you. I never speak anyway. I'm trying. I'm trying harder. You know you have to push me, coax me. You know this by now, but you're patient. And it's hard for you. You. I'm sparing details because we both know the story. We know our story. But you don't know mine. I hardly know yours. I make harsh guesses and judge you when I shouldn't. I can only assume you think the same about me, but . . . I'm different. You know I'm different, I can tell. What we have is different. But I don't want anyone to get any ideas, because it's not that type of different. And it won't be. Even though you're more mine than you were before, I understand what she didn't understand and maybe no one -- not even you -- understands. You could never belong to anyone. Which is why we're perfect for each other, in that different way, because I could never belong to anyone either. But we have different reasons. We're so different. You gave up without remorse what I would die to have. I'm sorry, I'm judging you irrationally again. I think you must feel a bit bad, or you wouldn't make such an effort with her every day. But she's miles and miles away. She thinks she's coming back but we both know differently. Maybe she knows the truth as well, but just pretends she's coming back. Maybe she's spending her time on wishes. I've wished on every 11:11 I could catch and everything is working out nicely. Either we're just meant to play this game until real life takes over or she's wishing on the wrong numbers. In a way, I was wrong about you. I had all these assumptions for the aftermath of your destruction but maybe you're really different than I thought you were. Maybe I misjudged. I shouldn't judge you so carelessly. I hope you think more of me than I think of you. Honestly, sometimes I feel like you don't think at all. You're impulsive. Spontaneous. I only pretend to be. But I plan. Everything must go according to plan. Everything will go according to plan. Everything has gone according to plan and I couldn't be more satisfied. Lies. I could be. In an alternate reality, perhaps, when things inside of us are ready to settle. Back to normal, I am as unsettled as can be. I am restless, I am antsy, I am anxious, I am anticipating your every move. I have done so since the beginning and it's only gotten better from there. I want to say an end is near, but really . . . I find that I constantly misjudge the time line. Eventually we are going to run out of extensions. And I am going to miss this, these feelings, our time. But will I miss you? Do I miss you? Our situation really is different than it sounds. There is no settling, there is no permanence. There are only raw needs and wants and a singular insatiable appetite. And we're comfortable with that. We are comfortable with each other. I realize that.
I am comfortable with you.
different
