If I ever push you away, I don’t really mean to. When I tell you I don’t want to talk about it I do, I am just looking for the right words. Give me a minute, and if I can tell you, I will. I try to be a struggling mix of real and perfect at the same time. At the moment, I am working on the ratio. When I get really quiet sometimes it is because I have too much to say. I have thought of too many things to tell you at once, and I don’t know what to say first. I get immaturely jealous of anyone who gets to see you on a daily basis. I miss you really easily, but I also like that we can be a p a r t and we are both okay. Space is good, too. I love the way we love some of the same things. And I love how we love entirely different things. My head is a complicated pile of thoughts, and fears, and cravings, and dreams, and this tangled up nostalgia for the past and, somehow future. I am flawed and I am human and I am broken and I am trying. And I am one person and I am two hands and I am one heart. And I love you. And I am so glad you are here.