I thought that if I stopped writing about you I would stop thinking of you. I thought that after I’d cried about you I’d be washed clean of you. I thought that after breaking my heart the shattered pieces that made up this love for you would scatter and in its place the resolve to steer clear of you.

Still you are always on my mind. So much so that the only rest from you I know is sleep. I think of nothing else. Now that we are apart my longing is greater still, my thoughts even more numerous. Can I stand this distance any longer?

I still know that we aren’t meant to be. I am keenly aware that you cannot love me. Still I want you. Still this heart of mine keeps crying out for you.

Every second that passes my resolve is being tested, to stay put, to keep still. All I want is to rush to your side. I don’t even know where to go from there, but somehow, occupying that place, all these voices might quiet down and for a little while, I’ll be home at last.

So I write again, hoping somehow that pouring these thoughts out will exhaust their source and I can breath again, and be myself again. There is no having you. There will be no being with you. The only way to quiet will be drain myself of you, cut myself and bleed out thoughts of you.

All of it seems very silly. This baseless, fruitless desire. We don’t even have anything to talk about. I wish we would talk though. I wish I could take care of you. I wish you’d tell me your insecurities, the ups and downs of your day. I wish I could sit next to you and laugh about it all. I wish we could look to our futures and see ourselves continuing to be there for each other. I wish we’d find a place to start.

I want to be ready. I want you to come and find me ready. Not coy, not hiding, not pretending. Just me. Just you. Someday an us.