You’re singing with me. You have your guitar, with its strings and pick and sounds. You have those drums and cajon and everything else that you just have.
You sing with me, but you have other music.
My hands, on the other hand, are empty. I’m just singing with you, looking at you.
I’m shaking my foot nervously. Fidgeting with this and that. Feeling my heart rate speed up. After all my rationalizing, my logic, my self-appraisal, my mind flutters at the thought of him.
Despite a part of me that distances myself involuntarily, there’s no denying the fact that I want it. I want everything to just work out.
This is driving me fucking crazy!
This is no romance, this is romanticism.
It’s just that there’s something wrong; I can’t really put my finger on it. To me, it’s our differences that are appealing. This isn’t fair to you. My reasons are all wrong, yours are right, this won’t do.
It’s almost like your recklessness draws me in. Your ability to just live in the moment, to do whatever the fuck you want- that is what appeals to me; it’s what sets us worlds apart.
When pain and memories constrained me, they liberated you. When he broke me with his lies, I tightened up and raised my guard and clutched desperately onto routine, certainty, normality. You, on the other hand, let loose. While I cared too much, you didn’t care at all. While I tried meticulously hard to be a certain person and show the world that I was that person, you couldn’t have cared less about how to behave, how to talk, how to think, how to feel. So different. And what amazes me is how we’re still here, despite all my efforts; we’re still here, in the same place.
Nevertheless. They’re still the wrong reasons. They’re still unfair to you and unfair to me. The differences swallow up all coalescence.
You’ve changed so much. You’ve sort of grown up a bit. I’ve witnessed the change and the changes right before my eyes. You’re whole goddamn demeanor has flipped. Over the music, the friends, the drugs. I just cannot understand how this led you to me.
I must not compromise what has always kept it’s promises, for him. I cannot let him take over my mind, my brain, the being that has never let me down.
I cannot compromise my work for him. His music, his photography, his friends; we are worlds apart. I cannot compromise myself for him.
I am not afraid of my truth anymore and I will not omit pieces of me to make you comfortable.
I’m sorry I’m not fun enough for you. I’m fine with quietness sometimes. I think you are too. I don’t know what you expect, what you expected. This is who I am, who I’m happy to offer. Consider offering.
I’m flattered that you like me. I think about you a lot. You’re unexpected, not entirely unwelcome. There’s a lot to think about you.
You take up space.
I don’t think you’re healthy for me yet. I’m not that good for you either, trust me. You don’t know what you’re dealing with. You don’t know what’s under that boring, pretty girl. “Girl next door”.
I know what happened with her, I’ve seen the change in you right before my eyes. Swooning and swooping and soaring. To who you are now; guarded, scared, rough, rude, different. Beautiful.