d*land

Still.

If you miss something so much, shouldn't you just go to it? If questions go unanswered, wouldn't you just take steps to answer them?

I'm running out of words to explain myself, and I'm not quite yet at home with everything here. All of these things to do, and I do nothing because it's the easiest.

I've lost my killer instict, the bits of me that grew in San Francisco, the protection that manifested itself from being so long around so many people. I look people in the eye, and smile, and I forget to lock my car door, the front door, the back door.

The altitude sickness is kicking in now, to the point I want to sleep for a while. This happens every time I come back to California from where ever I've been avoiding my family. I come home to sleep, and to get warm, only to take off for the cold again.

I really don't want to leave here.

. . .

And then there's you. When I feel myself cooling off, you come back around to say something that hooks me again. I'll never understand not running to you, or you not running to me. There are always things to do, and reasons not to, that's why these things are so hard.

For every reason to stay, there are 5 to come. I can never explain these to you. You can never tell an addict that's what they are.

Your actions speak of feelings you don't have, of things you've kept hidden, places I've seen. There are glimpses to a terrain that I've watched pass by in a side mirror, you're busy in the passenger side flipping through maps and charting courses. Observing the speed limit posted, you've warned me to slow down. My engine can stop, and it can go fast, but I do not have five speeds. There is no such thing as 45 miles an hour.

02.02.03 || 10:54 am

before || next

archive