.

I cannot stop thinking.

Thoughts are swirling and I'm afraid if I don't pick one to focus on, my mind might just explode. Right now, my mouth is shut, tied up, stitched and that's because I have a lot of things to say to you but I just can't.

It's hard to think that I want to see a future with you, but I am unsure. All these uncertainties are hitting me bad and it's not exactly a cup of tea thinking about what this is... whatever this is.

Excuse me for not trying to give this a chance, but this confusion. There are no words for this.

I'm sorry.

I forgot to write about you...

I forgot to write about you.

I dropped my pen and paper, my laptop and blog because I forgot to write about you.

I have a million things to say to you but I still forgot to write about you.

You and me, watching a movie and not sharing popcorn, because you hate it.

You and me, walking along a museum, ogling at the Spoliarium.

You and me, devouring a whole box of pizza just because.

You and me, laughing at the side of the road because we can.

You and me, lying side by side, taking in each other's breaths.

You and me. I forgot how you made me happy, how you make me happy.

Because I forgot to write about you.

I would, I could, I will write about you.

Nights

It's on nights like these-rainy, cold evenings when I wish that you were here.

These nights when I wish that we both lie in bed, laughing at nonsense things. Or your hugs from behind.
These are the nights that I wish you stroked my hair and told me you loved me. Or the nights when we'd argue and I would refuse to talk to you. Or possibly that night when you beat me in chess and I couldn't forgive you for it.

These are the nights I wish you were in my arms and I could feel you, all of you. That for just the remainder of the darkness, I wasn't alone. I was comfortable in the arms of somebody and not just anybody, somebody who was special and brought light into the darkness.

These are the nights that I would close my eyes and pray. Why, what did I ever do to deserve someone like you? And then, I open my eyes and you are there, silent and staring at me like I am the most valuable treasure on Earth.

Take me into your arms and assure me that somehow, when I look up and as I lay beside you, light will fill me up.

Because it's on nights like these that even if we're apart, you can love me.

A letter

Dear you,

In certain ways I have learned to tell myself that I am not the most emotional person ever. I have learned to conceal in the best way possible that everything I'm feeling is something normal, that you need not to worry and that I know you love me.

And most of the time, I do feel it. I just don't think I can ever compete with her.

I also know that I am trying to hurt myself by exposing myself to things that I shouldn't. I can't help it.

Also know that, even if I'm not the most romantic or sweetest person in the world (like her), I try. I try as hard as I could to make you feel that I'm invested in you. I love every part of you and you should know that I want to be enough because I can never be as sweet or as good as her. I will always be like this.

I'm not even going to think about every experience you've had with her, but I know that there will always be a special connection and I'm afraid at any time, it will spark again and everything we have will be gone with the wind. Truth be told, I am shaking. I want you to love me and every part of me and just listen to me.

Help me understand that I will be the only one, the only one who holds your heart because until then, I never know if I can ever be enough.

Janine

I miss writing.

I miss writing.

The rush of thoughts occupying that brain of yours fills me up. I can't remember the last time I wrote.

My mind's a blur.

I want to pick up writing again and be sure that what I write isn't mediocre or something that a kindergartner can write.

I want to feel again, feel so much emotion that in every sentence I can spot so much anger, angst, happiness or ecstasy that I am allowed to feel.

When I pick up a pen or type endlessly on my keyboard, I want every word, every sentence, every paragraph to matter. As if nothing else did, only my words, only my emotions, only what I feel for this or for anything that is of importance to me.

I miss writing. I miss the whole lot, the smell of a pen cascading upon the lines of a notebook.

I miss writing.