Good Things and Bad Things

I hate not seeing him when he's ill.
I hate it when he cries.
I hate that he won't talk to me when he's stressed.
I hate it when I can't put my arms around him and tell him it's all going to be alright.
I hate not being able to make sure he eats and doesn't live off whiskey.
I hate it when he doesn't talk to me.
I hate being so far away.
I hate it when I wake up reaching for him across the pillow.
I hate that he doesn't look after himself.

I love that he worries about others.
I love the anticipation of knowing that I will wake up next to him in a week, a month, a day.
I love the sound of his voice.
I love that he shows emotion.
I love that he hates upsetting me.
I love that he cares.
I love that he loves.
I love him.

I just wish it was easy and simple and clear and that he was close and well and happy.

But I know that I wouldn't change him for the world.

drunken butterfly

I miss him
I love him.
These two thoughts are constant in my mind, part reassuring, part worrying, always hovering near the surface.
Sometimes, it scares me.
How strongly I feel about another person.
I've been in love before.
At least, at the time, I thought myself in love.
But perhaps, loving him as I do now, perhaps I wasn't as in love as I thought, but only in love with the idea of being in love.
I know I want him near me, beside me.
Not far away, on the other side of the ocean, but close, in the next room or down the road or in my bed.
In my heart.
I want to share what I have with him.
To be there when he's tired, angry, hungry.
To laugh, fight, love and cry.
The phone helps, he's not so far away when he's on the other end.
But still not close enough to reach out and touch, although if I close my eyes, I can feel his arms around me.

It makes a change from doodling in the margins...

Sometimes, if I cry
It's not from pain
Not from hurt or even anger
But from frustration
Exhaustion
Or joy.

Sometimes, if I laugh
It's not from pleasure
Not from happiness
But from anger
Pain
Or delight.

And if, sometimes,
I say nothing
It's not because I have nothing to say
But because I don't have the words
To tell you of my pain
Frustration
Or happiness.

...

To the boy who made me cry
Told me I was ugly
And no-one would kiss me but him.
Who ignored me when it suited him
And only came to me when he wished to.
To the boy who hurt me deepest
Goodbye, memory.

To the boy who told me stories
Until I fell asleep
And then stole my duvet
Complained of my cold hands
And left me though he loved me
Goodbye, old love,
Remember me, dearest friend.

To the boy who made me laugh
When I was crying
Who made me smile
At the simplest of things
Whose voice made me
Makes me
Weak at the knees
And weak in the head
When all he said was my name
And who drives me mad
When he doesn't pick up the phone.

Even though I have nothing to say.

To the boy who told me stories
Called just to say goodnight
Asked the most ridiculous questions
Makes me cackle like a pantomime witch.
Who makes me nervous
And drives me to distraction.
... unfinished

Why I Shouldn't Watch Romantic Movies

I end up wishing, hoping, for that mysterious guy on a horse to pitch up, throw me up behind him and ride off with me into the sunset. Possibly having trained the buns and hound to run along behind us (I can see it now: "wanted: one prince charming. Must have gsoh, be housetrained, literate, well-read and love animals"). Heh. Maybe I've spent too long watching the bunny honeymoon - although, to be fair, I don't long for someone to jump on my head and dry-hump it, which is what Pete keeps doing to Doris. No, I want snuggles.

Anyway.


I'm scared of what will happen. Nervous of what he'll think, whether I'll say something stupid, have an outbreak of spots. Getting my heart broken, battered or just plain bruised. Actually, scratch that. The risk is half the fun, no?