I can be me with you; awkward, goofy and honest to a fault. You’re my confidante, the sounding board for my terrors and insecurities. You’re my cheerleader and ass kicker, catching me when I stumble. You dare me to be better and you call me on my bullshit. I can tell you anything.
Thinking about you causes a constriction within my chest, a pinching and aching at the thought of what we’ve become.
I did a terrible job of burying my feelings for you; the hole I dug was barely deep enough to conceal the aching beneath the surface.
I never stopped wanting you, I just stopped talking about it and became only slightly better at keeping the screaming, crying, breaking inside.
I’ve taken back so many words before they’ve spilled off my tongue because I’m all too familiar with our history, with the parts we’ve played, with saying too much.
I swear I see something in those eyes of yours and I don’t think you can hold someone the way you’ve held me if it didn’t mean something.
It terrifies me that while you’ve been with me through quite a bit and have saved me from numerous pains, but you can’t save me from this falling.
You are the mark to which the other men in my life are compared.
I’m beyond terrified that things will continue to be how they’ve always been, that the pendulum in my heart will never stop it’s violent swinging.
I cease the ability to function normally when you’re close; my body forgets how to do anything but pull you closer and my lungs forget how to do anything but breathe you in.
Is this our wintertime tradition, to watch the high speed collision of our hearts and stand in the rubble of the lesser — of me?