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It's 12:01am on October 9th.
I still don't know if you like me or if you're pulling away, and I think this all the time. So much that it's annoying me. I got out of my bed in like of taking a pill to help me sleep, I thought I'd write to you.
Why can't I just ask you if you like me? it feels so obvious. You text me. You call me. You agree to go on long weekends with me, but when you couldn't commit to wanting to see me this weekend - I definitely understand the desire for solitude - yet I also wonder what the fuck.
Tomorrow morning, I'm going to write you and offer to see you on a Thursday and come back on a Friday so you can practice a weekend without me if you want. But I also think, you'd miss me like you usually do and want to fuck me.
It's vexing.
I've lost myself in you. I find you so fucking fascinating, and I can't stand how simply I am with you. I bragged that I'd started my mystery novel so that you would think I was somewhat cool.
Why do I even try?
The first time I saw you, I knew you were for me.
Now I tread water and go howl softly at moons.
Please love me.
Please mean it.
If not, let's beat this dead horse until you're sick of me. That's how much I'm into you. I'm willing to be just a boredom killer at best.
And I'll have so many memories to keep me warm, yet none of them will be of you kissing me in the woods.
now to fucking really howl.
It's waning but still pretty bright.
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