If I ever push you away, I don’t really mean to.

When I tell you I don’t want to talk about it, I do. I am just looking for the right words, give me a minute and if I can tell you; I will.

I try to be a struggling mix of real and perfect at the same time. At the moment I am working on the ratio.

When I get really quiet sometimes, it is because I have too much to say. I have thought of too many things to tell you all at once and I don’t know what to say first.

I get immaturely jealous of anyone who gets to see you on a daily basis.

I miss you really easily but I also like that we can be apart and we are both okay. Space is good, too.

I love the way we love some of the same things and I love how we love entirely different things.

My head is a complicated pile of thoughts, and fears, and cravings, and dreams, and this tangled up nostalgia for the past, and somehow, the future.

I am flawed and I am human and I am broken and I am trying. And I am one person and I am two hands and I am one heart.