Today I Just Feel Like Writing

This is going to be really disjointed, and it may not make much sense. It's just a collection of things I've had on my mind, some more recently than others.

You never believe me when I call you cute. I guess it's okay, because I never believe you, either. It bothers me, though. And I guess it probably bothers you.

I don't know when, exactly, I got angry. It just reared up in me, swollen and red and isolated. I didn't want you near me. And it must have started at the beginning of the night, when I asked you not to get drunk and you did anyways. And maybe the stress of driving for the first time in New Orleans, without a valid license and with my best friend hanging out his car's window, drunker than I knew how to deal with, and you in the back seat, sobering but not quickly enough for my needs. I thought about us, and about me, and about you, and how we're so different. And I thought of my words to Michael: "He's not the affectionate type of guy that I'm used to. I gave up 'long-walks on the beach' and getting up at 5 o'clock to watch the sunrise when I met him. And I'm okay with that." Suddenly, I wasn't so okay with it. I was angry at you for not expressing your feelings for me better and more often, I was angry that you and I don't have the same ideals about romanticism, I was angry that it's common knowledge that when we separate, I'll be utterly destroyed while you have no problem moving on.

It hurt.

And when I hurt, I lash out.

So I lashed out. I told you to get away from me, and I hid my face from you and ignored your "please talk to me"s until Michael came back and you shut up because neither of us wanted to involve him in our drama.

And eventually I picked up your cigarettes and went outside to smoke, because I could, and because I hoped you would take the hint and not follow me. You did, anyways. So there was me, sitting on the stairs and ignoring you, and you and your quiet: "You won't even look at me." And me, ever proving you wrong, taking a drag and turning to stare you in the face. Then turning again and exhaling. Then getting up and leaving and going to bed, alone.

And you, an hour later, crawling into bed and curling into me, me instinctively wrapping myself around you. "I'm supposed to be your confidant. Confide in me."

So I kissed you. Not right then, but later, after the whispers and the almost-tears and the confessions. We could have just gone to sleep, but I kissed you instead. Because I'm better with my lips than with my words, and I'm not sure you'd ever understand, anyways.

I'm so fragile. Emotionally, you have me in the palm of your hand, and every squeeze goes straight to my heart.

And I'm not going to spend forever with you. We're smarter than that. But I live in dread of all of the "tomorrow"s I'll someday have to spend without you.