J.
You smoke too much. You're in denial, but it's true.
When I see you, it's always the same: your head in the clouds, cigarette balancing between your fingers, or your lips. When I see you, I see everything.
I wish I could be honest with you, but this love feels like stealing. I don't know how to help it, I feel like I've tried everything to stop it. You don't want this, don't even want to know about this. How can I be moderate around you? You are my favourite thing.
We danced together, table and sofas pushed back. You lead, I followed. I would follow you anywhere.
We listen to the same music, you and I, and it makes listening so much sweeter because I know now that we share the same ears.
I miss you always. Even when you stand right beside me. Even when you hold my hand. You can't see it, can't feel it, but there is a plate of thin glass between us. A little mirror. I see you always. And I suppose you see yourself, too.
You have dreams away from me. You want for more than I am or could ever hope to give. You do not want me at all.
How lonely it is to love you. If I could stop, I would. It feels almost blasphemous to say it, but it's true. This hurts too much. This feels like always.
