There's a burden in being loved.
Sometimes, I know I say too much. Overpromise. Sometimes, I hold
back. Underwhelm. I think she's the one. Whispers
in the back of my mind. I don't think it would be fair to say this
aloud. I am not comfortable on this couch.
For what it's worth, I'm pathologically self
aware to the point of paralysis. I know it's love when it hurts.
Finding balance. The worse part of talking with you is the
silence. Only because I hear how ridiculous I sound. Like
now. Like every day, we talk.
There's a burden in feeling unlovable. But I'm not unloved. I want
the best for her. The hardest thing for an only child to come to
terms with. I won't cry over hypotheticals. I am not comfortable on
this couch looking up at you.
I get these dreams where I am transported back in time. Doesn't
feel like a mid life crisis. I am comfortable at this stage of
life. Sometimes, I write down these thoughts.
Overthinking. Sometimes, I let these words float around aimlessly.
Uncompromising.
In a perfect world. I always stop myself there. What's
perfect for me is not necessarily perfect for her. These dreams where I
am transported back in time are cloaked in loneliness. I was too busy to
notice then. And I still don't feel lonely. I think she's
the one. Loneliness isn't why. It's not fair to tell her.
I am uncomfortable on your couch.
For what it's worth, you and me.
Therapy.
Things I'd never tell my therapist.
