I just can’t write anymore. All the angst I have deep inside spills into pages of my composition notebook. Or remains in my brain until I’m with him, and I end up blurting it out while burying my head in his shoulder, taking in his scent and relishing in the feeling of his arms around me. Soaking in the fact that he wants to listen to me, and no one else. Enjoying the attention and the words he speaks, justice to me, and me only. The way his lips graze over mine and he tells me words I needed to hear, “you’re a good person, you’ll do great things,” and I close my eyes, drifting away into a world where you don’t matter.
But, you will always matter.
You will matter until the day I die, and probably beyond that.
A love song that never got sung, a poem that never got written. You matter, and I don’t. The world is letting us both know.
I never wanted to be insignificant and yet, somehow I am. I always will be. The feeling is creeping up on me now. The feeling of nothingness, numbness. A bottle of wine, red wine, could potentially solve the problem. I could drink it while staring blankly at my computer screen, waiting for a message from someone.
I know I’m okay. Even when I feel nothing. Because we get through these thing.
I would write more, but there is so little I can say without sounding pathetic.