I can’t sleep. I’m bothered by the fact that the sembreak’s almost over and I still haven’t seen you. But you said so yourself; you often watched distances push people farther apart and you pleaded guilty of not doing anything about it.
I don’t know if it’s just me but even after we called it off, I feel like you still see me as one of your suitors. It’s as if you’re always waiting for me to initiate our every interaction. It’s as if I’m obligated to bring something whenever I visit you. It’s as if I’m required to ‘fluff’ you emotionally whenever you implied it.
It’s largely my fault for letting myself be played around like this. But I loved it when you dropped your guard around me. You’d spill all your immature rants and boast about your sexual exploits. You’d expose your superficiality like it was your most prized possession. (Though I did cringe when you called me ‘Bes’ for the first time; I hate pet names.) And I know it may sound far-fetched and romanticized but it appeared as if you had trusted me with your imperfections.
It’s highly masochistic and I ought to hate myself for it. But I miss you. (Fucking cheese balls. Kill me now.)
Oh, and here’s another one of David’s pubmats. Maybe I should commission him to do the layouting of our boards for Bibliotheca.