The Songs We Sing.

Somebody has stolen my blogging mojo. Either that or this relentless
state of sickness coupled with work has prevented me from finding mere
moments to let some thoughts leak out of my brain. Quite possibly
both.

Whatever, hi, how are you?

I nearly told a boy that I loved him last night. I had to chew my
fingernails to stop the words from sneaking out. It was the
carbonation; it was the music, or the way he looks into my eyes. I
guess you have to wonder why it would have been so bad if I had
actually said those three words. But it would have been tragic. I
don't have time for a broken heart It's been so long since I've said
them and meant them that I miss what it feels like. And maybe that's
just it, I'm looking in all of the wrong places for excuses when
really, there isn't anything there. I have this suspicion that he has
been fighting the same words.

I wonder if he knows what he'll be missing. His goodbye kisses are
getting longer, his hand holds mine tighter, and he lingers in the
morning.

We swayed to the music, lost in the crowd and everything seemed okay
in that brief moment. We talked about Europe and quitting our jobs and
sleeping on trains.

People keep asking me what will happen when he leaves and I don't
know. I don't want to know. We've never had that discussion and I
don't think we ever will. He will get on a plane and fly away forever
and sometimes that seems easier than making some sort of transoceanic
relationship function properly. At times his existence seems
inconsequential in the grandiose scale of life. And still I have to
wonder why I haven't found something about him to dislike yet. I might
be too forgiving, I might not have standards but for the first time in
a long time, I'm not bored to death. That's about as close to a
compliment as you'll get.

Another part of me isn't comfortable with him leaving and not knowing
what could have been. I don't want to spend the next decade of my life
comparing every other boy to this one and I'm afraid that might happen
if we don't at least admit to ourselves how we really feel. Of course
I'm dramatizing all of this. It's been clear from the start that
neither of us were interested in something serious, but I think that
no matter how hard I try to control and repress my emotions, they
somehow manage to make me at least doubt my commitment to denial.

Tonight I'll paint 100 coats of white paint on top of my blood red
living room wall and try to forget about this all.