"I love you, always. Time is nothing"

I almost find it sad, the way writers instinctually feel as though everyone likes being written about. I mean, that isn't my purpose of posting, just a mere case and point thing. You can't assume someone wants you to rip open your feelings about them on page, but you do it, because it's all you know how to do really. All I really know how to do is write, and not even significantly, or at least consistently well. 

Some days its hard to breath without it, others it's impossible to imagine ever having it at all. They all knew somehow, even when I didn't. They knew where my head was, my heart, I guess. I wonder if it's all that obvious anymore. I like to pretend that monumental perfection wouldn't exist anywhere beyond where it is now. What could have been always seems a lot better than what is. 

I wish I'd let myself be cut open again. I wish someone would try as hard. I wish I found happiness in the utterance of my name, comfort in the way someone could stay all night. I wish the granted I'd taken could come back to feed me, but once you bite that hand it isn't likely to return in your favor. I forget how to sleep now.