Write me

I can't stop listening to the new Tame Impala album and I can't stop thinking about you. This is the most absolutely infuriating thing because it's now been over a week and I'm wasting valuable pining time on you when it could be better spent obsessing over someone else. I don't know what you want and we really don't have the heart of the matter in common. You are skeptical in a dangerous way whereas I feel I am taking other things into account. I want to do this right but there is no such thing. Would you ever come here? I feel like you wouldn't just because of me. If you did it would be ok I think, you'd get a place that was maybe nicer than mine (maybe) and work and I would see you once a week to make you dinner or go out for a drink. I would introduce you to my friends and you would either love them and get it or you wouldn't and that would be that; you seem good in just about any situation. Fantasizing about even this is exactly what I'm trying not to do! All of it is a waste of cells and you are probably at your home, playing with your dog or playing piano or studying or thinking about your ex or drinking the rest of my wine or masturbating or crying in the shower or sitting in your car listening to Coldplay or playing video games or sleeping because it's 11:30 where you are and you work tomorrow. Gosh what I would give to know...not much but I would give at least something. My mind just wraps itself up in you in this unhealthy way. It's all regret's fault and I regret that I feel this way too. I've been in too many one sided conversations and I should know better...but I don't. I wish I was listening to Coldplay with you in your car and that is saying a lot because I think Coldplay is an irrelevant and boring band. Show me a different point of view, show me your pain and I will show it back to you through my eyes. 

Oma said some mean things about you and I got so mad it surprised me. I just wanted you to know I defended you, for no reason I instinctively felt I needed to keep you safe from her. I don't know what to do about you, where to store you in my psyche. Reorganize my books, pasting pictures, baking---whatever, it will all be for you and every time I think about it or look at it I will think of you and that is so unfair to me. You can't be the summertime in my winter mind, clearly you never wanted that. I can speculate on you but I'll never really know; it isn't as if we know eachother well enough for you to even tell me just to tell me. I see us on that sofa and I am screaming at myself to touch you. Take your hand, touch your face or just say "I want you to, too."