Together, we'll wreak havoc, you and me.
I, am a lonely, pathetic bastard. Happy birthday.
And then the phone rang, and I was so exhausted that "Answer your door," didn't even register as remarkable. I saw you leaning against my doorframe, that self-satisfied grin the most delicious mockery I could have ever laughed in response to, and I wouldn't let it register.
"This is a dream. You're still asleep. How many times have we been through this?"
Mygodthat'sgorgeousIcan'tbelieveyoureallyyesyoumayIlikeit,too. And yes, in spite of myself, thank you for the card.
The West Wing; Dave; House; You.
Class was really, really fun, and for the first time, I smiled on the walk home.
Walking, arm in arm, downtown to dinner, and then to the theatre home.
You; Just you.
Certain things became optional after that, while others became fervently mandatory. I am so okay with this. This. This. That, too.
And the seconds marched on; each tick, not a slippery, empty benchmark, but a point, quietly emphasised, complete in itself.
And yet, march they did. It's worth speculation: I can laugh at the concept that I was ever unhappy, that there was ever pain or frustration or lonely, empty, sleepless nights weighing malignant. That is, until I can see that there's nothing I can do to keep you; that despite everything I'm capable of, I'll have to let you go again.
I want to run an EKG on someone while their heart is breaking.
My god, it's less than seventy-two hours; what the hell is wrong with me?
Choke. Swallow. My god, just get to the door. Please, let me make it to the door.
I love you.
Happy birthday.
I need a drink.
And then the phone rang, and I was so exhausted that "Answer your door," didn't even register as remarkable. I saw you leaning against my doorframe, that self-satisfied grin the most delicious mockery I could have ever laughed in response to, and I wouldn't let it register.
"This is a dream. You're still asleep. How many times have we been through this?"
Mygodthat'sgorgeousIcan'tbelieveyoureallyyesyoumayIlikeit,too. And yes, in spite of myself, thank you for the card.
The West Wing; Dave; House; You.
Class was really, really fun, and for the first time, I smiled on the walk home.
Walking, arm in arm, downtown to dinner, and then to the theatre home.
You; Just you.
Certain things became optional after that, while others became fervently mandatory. I am so okay with this. This. This. That, too.
And the seconds marched on; each tick, not a slippery, empty benchmark, but a point, quietly emphasised, complete in itself.
And yet, march they did. It's worth speculation: I can laugh at the concept that I was ever unhappy, that there was ever pain or frustration or lonely, empty, sleepless nights weighing malignant. That is, until I can see that there's nothing I can do to keep you; that despite everything I'm capable of, I'll have to let you go again.
I want to run an EKG on someone while their heart is breaking.
My god, it's less than seventy-two hours; what the hell is wrong with me?
Choke. Swallow. My god, just get to the door. Please, let me make it to the door.
I love you.
Happy birthday.
I need a drink.