Rambling, crying from one eye, on a Saturday afternoon

I complain, in my head, about people not being upfront about their intentions. Right up until the time where I catch myself doing the same thing. Saying too much seems to be worse than saying not enough. And I have a history of saying way too much too soon. And even when I’m talking to someone who knows how I feel, I wonder do they really? My hearts a bonfire. Flaring when I talk to those I love. And settling down, the heats still there and it’s sudden lessening feels like pain.

I suppose it’s the curse of loving. Ultimately, all you can do is be who you are.

I would do more than be available and talk. If I received the go ahead. Consent.

Sometimes, I feel trapped in the cage of my honor. Which, I suppose, is the point.

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