11:04 PM.
I should be sleeping, but instead I'm listening to the sound of crickets and feeling the staleness of immobile air. The evenings didn't always taste like this, bittersweet.
Last night you kissed me (or so my sleeping mind surmised). That current awoke me, but having done so left me with a deep ache. Those touches were electric.
Few other times in my life have I ever felt that way.
Remember that cold autumn night wrapped in a dozen blankets on your lawn?
I'm lying in wait, hoping to pounce when the moment is right. But it seems the moment will never be right, and when it is so much time will have passed perhaps you will have forgotten how it once felt.
("How long will I have to wait? 10 years? I can't wait forever.")
(The naiivety of that time astounds me.)
(Though I haven't changed a bit.)
This love is an illness.
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