I don't know what else to do
It can be extremely difficult trying to be there for somebody, always, and not having them recognize it as such. And trying to be something that you might just not be to someone else. Am I wrong? I would love it if you told me I was wrong.
I'm being extremely cryptic. Shoot me. I can't say a name because everything, always, gets complicated, because everyone knows everyone else, and because if I don't mention a name, I'm still maintaining a shred of saving ambiguity. She knows I mean it's her, anyway.
And I'm veiling this in the third person, because if I say, "I'm writing your letter. It's twelve pages so far, with no definite end in sight. Do you really want it? Is it going to mean anything to you?", that's like I'm looking for a direct answer. And I'm not. Not right here.
I'm sorry. I'm freaking out. The girl in New York is doing things that I don't understand and she's not the same as she used to be and neither am I, and the girl in Philadelphia is too, too, too far away, and the girl right here doesn't see herself the way I see her and doesn't see me the way I want to be seen.
But I am writing a letter. And it's twelve pages so far, with no definite end in sight. And I hope she wants it. And I hope it means something.
I don't know how to say what I mean. Can we just talk about this seriously, once, for a little while? I'll try my best to be calm. I just need to stop worrying.
I'll see you soon?
I'm being extremely cryptic. Shoot me. I can't say a name because everything, always, gets complicated, because everyone knows everyone else, and because if I don't mention a name, I'm still maintaining a shred of saving ambiguity. She knows I mean it's her, anyway.
And I'm veiling this in the third person, because if I say, "I'm writing your letter. It's twelve pages so far, with no definite end in sight. Do you really want it? Is it going to mean anything to you?", that's like I'm looking for a direct answer. And I'm not. Not right here.
I'm sorry. I'm freaking out. The girl in New York is doing things that I don't understand and she's not the same as she used to be and neither am I, and the girl in Philadelphia is too, too, too far away, and the girl right here doesn't see herself the way I see her and doesn't see me the way I want to be seen.
But I am writing a letter. And it's twelve pages so far, with no definite end in sight. And I hope she wants it. And I hope it means something.
I don't know how to say what I mean. Can we just talk about this seriously, once, for a little while? I'll try my best to be calm. I just need to stop worrying.
I'll see you soon?