Every inclination, compulsion inside of me is begging, pleading for perfection- the sole ambition for my constant revision. When I am unable to portray the extent and full capacity of my complete infatuation- although what I'm feeling is a complete contradiction to the meaning itself because it is not a short-term admiration, but a lifelong passion for you- and when I am not capable, when I do not express the absolute sentiment- no, the "kilig" I feel when you're next to me, when I feel you inside of me not only physically but emotionally, I feel... I feel as though I am not making you see the way you have taken over me not in the way a hurricane devours a city, but in the way spring brings all of the flowers to bloom and the grass turns its brightest green and the birds begin to sing... you, you are my spring.

He came home to find every trace of her gone except for the smell of raspberry perfume floating off the sheets and a small handwritten note. "I'm sorry" was all she wrote.

Why does it have to be so hard?

I'm still tearing apart at the seams but by now you've already forgotten me.

"Our love is the drug you need rehab from."
But no matter how long I'm kept locked away from him- draining the remnants of his essence from me, and
hopelessly
trying to replace it with anything,
oh god, anything, everything else-
the minute I step out the very air that I breathe will be him again. Every breath that I take after will replenish me.
As if he doesn't know he's woven along
my lungs and he is the blood that flows through my veins.
As if he doesn't know the
scars
he's left on me.

You're not happy when I'm happy, and you're not happy when I'm sad, so what exactly do you want me to feel? What emotion will be enough for you, what expression will make you love me again? You left because it was too hard to be with me and now you're back because it's too hard to be gone? I can't be with or without you there's no peace in this tragedy we call our story.