Six months and I miss every. fucking. thing.

Deep wounds find frightful ways of masking their intensity. The smallest of sights fracture the lie. These remnants, they twist and ache, they weep as they look upon the abyss, the depth of this perplexing absence of everything, of anything. Breathe deep, swallow hard, keep moving.

i don't think i ever deserved you. reading your texts i saved makes it abundantly clear how kind and loving you have been to me, and projects starkly my own withdrawal. i have been unwilling to show you how much i care because it appeared to me to be a weakness, i trust you but i couldn't bring myself to admit the full truth of my feelings, to fully express myself, even if only to myself. and i miss you already. and i'm scared. and so much of me wants to take Saturday back. i don't know what i'm doing.