putting up with my chronic unhappiness must drive you mad, my love.
and though i want nothing more than for you to be happy always, sadness never near, as if you put a restraining order on it, don’t expect the same for me. truth is, i almost like being miserable. it’s like it’s my motivation to bring up every frustration at dinner time and know that very little of it really hurts me.
so sweet to taste victory after proclaiming defeat. and when you start winning, you want more. you always want more.
noone ever died from wanting too much
and that could be the soundtrack to my life, it really could.
the world is not enough
but it is such a perfect place to start, my love
but you don’t believe that do you?
you’re happy with the way we are, blissfully unaware of the way i hurt inside, thinking that you expect so much of me, the way every time i feel the burning need to give more and more, but seem able only to give less.
still, this is not the end.
i don’t believe there will be one, because i don’t want it to end. ever. but is that just me wanting too much again?
and right now i’m just not sure. yesterday hurt, if not you, then me. the conversation, the way you looked at me, the cold i felt eminating from the familiar warm mound of you on the bed there.
still, i’ll try to set the memories of our hurts alight, because really there aren’t that many. because i love you more than that.
if we can’t have it all
then nobody will
but, my love, i’m afraid i can’t do a thing about my chronic unhapiness.
it’s become a part of me. just like you.