the threads in her head

For the first time this year I hold myself and cry without seeking him.

It's time to stop because, somehow, ironically and amazingly enough, it is immature.

Did you not say I was no longer a kid? That's true, and yet, I'm still not fully grown, and really, neither are you fully, even if you think your wings hardened.

Can you wait? Will you wait? But oh, these questions are senseless in the face of reality and change - it is unfair to me and to you, when there is still so much to see, really, really, so so much to see, and to find out, about me, about you, about the world, education, society, interaction.

The future is once again filled with uncertainties, more so than ever; the questions have burst like a flood, put together and becoming even more destructive than it already was with the blend of adult's perspective.

But, sweet your attention has been, the sweetest, dearest, most precious ever I have tasted for now - but perhaps I've let myself get carried away, too much of a good thing is bad, too much sweets are bad, perhaps I've gotten myself a little too drunk on with this half-delirious wine of closeness.

What I'm trying to say is - it was not a mistake, it never was, it was a beautiful beautiful thing that I am glad for.

The longing is once again strong in the heart, but this time it is tempered with pain - and I feel it again, pain going to the very center of my heart, not just a mild dull ache or weary heaviness, but a real, very real, pain.

And I cry, and cry.

But I'll stop.