I want you around so I can tell you about my bad day.
I want you around to hold me when I sleep.
I want you around so I have someone to focus on besides myself.

But there isn't a 'you',
there's never been a 'you',
and that's the problem.

People say love is like a budding flower.
Like the sun.
Like waves on a beach, hot tea on a cold day, like light breaking though the clouds.

They're lying.

The best example I can use is that love is a bus.

You have no choice in getting on, it comes when it wants to, and if you're not careful, it will move too fast and leave you sprawled on the floor.
Falling will take your shame, your self esteem, and your faith.

But eventually you'll find a seat,  learn to enjoy the ride, and get where you need to be.

I never knew that I could find so much beauty in such little things.

Like the sound of our bathroom door squeaking as you sneak inside, well after you should have been in bed.

Like the way the pillows smelt after you fell asleep with your hair wet, saturated and crumpled on the bed.

Like the wet, slick razor left on the side of the sink, because you know your stubble hurts my skin.

Like the beep of the fridge telling you you're taking too long to decide whether to have juice or chocolate milk. You always choose chocolate milk.

I never realised how much those little sounds meant to me, until it fell silent.

I never realised how much those smells comforted me, until they were replaced with others' cheap cologne and cigarettes.

I never realised how much those little traces of you left around the house could keep you with me all day, until they became the only means of having you near me.

When the wind drowns you out,
when the thunder roars,
when all you can hear is the pounding of your blood rushing through your ears,
call to me.

Because I have lost my voice and can't call you back when you waunder from me.

And I'm left,
standing there,
calling.

I stay up til 3am.
I scroll,
tweet,
reblog,
upload.

I keep my mind busy until it's too tired to argue with itself.

I wake up at 12pm.
Unrested,
regretful,
dissatisfied.

I've wasted my day,
swapped a sunrise for a dimmed screen,
breakfast for lunch,
sleep for rest.

My days blur,
with nothing to occupy my time,
I watch 5 seasons in a day,
reach my post limit,
exhaust conversations.

Doing nothing had become my job.

And it consumes me.

Trembling fingers that have nothing to do with the heat,
beating hearts and breathless sighs,
are all symptoms of your love.

Flashing phone screens and vibrations on tables,
fidgeting thumbs hovering over keys,
waiting for that little speech bubble to appear,
are all symptoms of your love.

Closed doors and unanswered calls,
inactive screens and stagnant feeds,
wet eyes and damp sheets,
are the sideaffects of withdrawal from your love

Windows open to clear the air,
candles lit to bring in light and scent,
hair regrowth, makeovers, and new bedsheets,
were all cures to your love.