Sitting, contemplating of the precise words to use in my articles. It's the usual. You're the usual.

1. For you, I rewrote that postcard so many times. You won't ever know until I surrender myself to reveal this to you. And I've hated that I've revealed so much already, with thoughts pouring into the idea that our space would be filled. I quickly shift my emotions involuntarily to whichever contact you make, yet I've managed to think you're somehow worth it. I dislike seeing how those around me are in the same position as me, yet I intrude this sort of commonality with a cut that spreads hope for different outcomes. I can't take this but I can't reach for you so bluntly. I imagine what I want to happen, but instead receive excuses on why you should leave. I don't even want to question you on your own truth, your current emotions have been salient anyhow. I want you to let yourself be loved. Staying over with you is one of the most memorable and enjoyable moments I've ever had.