I’m tired of trying, of beating the grass hoping you’ll show yourself. Maybe we only get one, maybe giving up, giving in is the only choice left.
Talking with you is like cutting myself. It’s cathartic, pleasurable and never comes to anything. When it’s over, you don’t initiate contact, I always must. It’s leaving scars, without the accompanying good memories.
And I can’t stop feeling that there is some connection and you won’t talk to me, won’t tell me. Leaving me dangling over the ledge, yelling for someone to come but they never do.
There comes a point where the pain of without you is less than the hope of with you and that point is fast approaching.
Pelgris 