The price of loving people
—is mourning them in advance, even when nothing is wrong. Sometimes it's fear: growing up and around it, living every day and knowing it's still part of me.
It will always be a part of me, that fear, for as long as we are both alive, the same blood cycling back and forth in our tired veins.
Sometimes loving you is very easy, and sometimes it's automatically converting to your time zone, and wondering what you're doing, and waiting like a dog for you to wake up. Sometimes it's crying a little at 3 a.m. over something that happened more than half a decade ago.
Sometimes I talk to myself in our chat like if I could talk enough, I could talk myself into a house in California. Half the world away. It would be sunny, and the sky would be a different shade of blue, and I wouldn't have to wonder anymore.