There are days
The universe is expanding and collapsing inside me, on repeat every second of the day. Every breath that I take. I hang on your words like a bee stuck in it's own honey. Drowning in the pools of sweetness we've constructed. I've never felt so safe outside of my own head, sharing my own bed, knowing the kind things that you've said. My heart beats for you, and you can't see it, but in the quietest moments, on mornings when we're being lulled back into reality you've whispered that you can hear it. And I'm glad to know the serenity of falling asleep listening to your heart beat.
I am not sure how to proceed, but it is the time for me to stir things around. I should be able to find it. I am the son of the shark of capitalism. Some spend lives figuring out how to make money in huge amounts, but I think I am many parsecs ahead of them being born to a family with such a great affluence. I think it is the time to put it to better use. I do not know what is ahead of me, but I also feel that it is just so limiting of me to be satisfied with the perspective of working in my family's business in the future. I want independence. Before I devise on how to properly grant it to myself, I should also analyze how this thought was put in my mind. I am not overtaken by conspiracy theories about social engineering and programming, but I will be better of making sure I am not using someone else's ideals or thoughts choosing what path to take. How do you know that your dreams are yours?
I need a solid answer from you. You know, like a list or something. A list of reasons why you don't want to be with me. A list of reasons why you think we're not made for each other. A list of reasons why you think it'll be a waste of time for us to go on dinner dates.
Give me a freaking list, woman. And end this silence once and for all. It's killing me. It's like I'm half way through a story and the rest of the pages have been torn away. I still know the ending, though - the last page is still there, intact in front of my eyes. I read it and I know we're not going to die in each others' arms as I would want it to happen. I know it.
I just want to hear you say it. I just want to know why. I want to know what you think about this whole mess. Or if you think about it at all.
So yeah, give me a list.
I remember afternoons on the cliffs, taking long drags off cigarettes, whispering into the wind as it whipped our hair across our cheeks. I remember these small, tragically beautiful moments, our desperate attempts at romanticizing our own sadness. How else could we have passed the time and still survived? We were a snapshot in time, stuck in our sadness in the past. We've grown since then to be so much more than that, but there's something strangely special about those moments. Something about it that's burned into my memory, the smell of smoke mixing with the salty sea air. Kelp rotting away on the shore below us, like a sick metaphor for what we were doing to ourselves. The wet tips of my canvas shoes from carelessly stepping through puddles, and the familiar feeling of cold feet.