Love is disquietude

It’s easy to think too much if only you are found in possession of enough time and enough passion.

And there’s no better love to scrutinize than that one which imposes a deferment, indefinite hold-ups for a single cause too rare to disdain. The worst is always behind but all the while the searing sun still cooks the blacktop ahead. Yet it couldn’t be easier to keep focus, you are in a non dilemma but a fervorous one nonetheless.

But what do these questions even matter if it’s all for a key reason? A cause bigger than your fear to pass on from the effort.

See, it can be consuming… this disquietude, particularly because it has no justification other than it being part of a passionate hunt for perfectionism, the calculation and the expectation to find closure to these faits divers arranged like grey muddles. And this cycle will continue in its own sparse blurt, some periods you’re free and other days you’re caught in a spree of self nuisances.

All because you lack her heavily. What strange ways the psyche finds to demonstrate reaction to the feeling of lack, mutual lack, for it’s hard to lack someone, but harder to know that they’re lacking you too. You’d do her good, yet that’s impossible as of this moment. It’s unfortunate but it being bearable is a must!

You grab your own feet and do not let go and so, stuck you stay for a discriminated and indefinite while. Then you say it or put it in text as I’m doing now, and she is most definitely used to reading these sissy conundrums, of getting showered with them, just at times yet possibly still too many. But she won’t tire.

It’s not beautiful to frown while thinking of her as if she is doing something wrong for having nightmares about her past, for being herself, for needing her own stability and counting on yours too. For, despite all, entering your life with offerings she thought lost inside her old corpse; only she was mistaken! Gifts you’ve been sampling as she opened up, treasures hard to outshine. You know you wouldn’t be in a wait and in a hurry for anything superfluous. You’ve had less, you know how it (not) felt.

So, since you will stay and you know it, dust that languor off, if possible. You wonder why you’re strained. It’s from the intensity of your care for her and of the carefulness all those promises must carry as well. It’ll get you down and bruised, indeed. It might make you grow more alike her in a sense and she won’t much like the idea of that.

She’s dying for joy and with every show of collapse your side she gets fearful. She’s not like you, she conceives the worst and, only after, might risk to glimpse into the better; that’s how far as fiction goes for her, it’s her fantasy, you and the better you shall bring.

And then when she’ll finally be there to hug you you’ll ache more than ever before as she squeezes so fondly.

Your peaking soreness will begin to implode in silence and fade away, just like those slashes on Logan’s body heal on screen. Thus, have no sadness! Otherwise, what’ll be of her heart if she’s to be led to think she had been causing you this pain herself?

Your black and blueness isn’t on her. That’d be a lie on you and you don’t lie to her! You just can’t…


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