I read his letters over and over like a junkie.
I trace each thought and heart leap, mulling them over, savoring and sucking all the meaning out of each endearment, rolling it on my tongue, voicing it to feed my starving soul, willing for more to come. Like a child sent to her room to ponder her misbehavior, I am
I hate this silence.
I hate this neediness
I hate that I call you and you can’t hear me
I hate hat I can’t read your face or your eyes
I hate that I hug myself to sleep holding it together and my hands are not yours
I hate that I am so scared of being too much and not enough.
I hate that you warned me, but I don’t listen very well.