Life doesn't make sense.
That's the one thing I've come to make sense of.
The way you feel,
and the way I feel
never seems to be correlating from day to day.
One day I'll be madly in love
and you'll ask for some space.
Rejectedly I sit and ponder how we even began.
I doubt every beautifully blissful moment.
I get scared.
Alone.
Afraid.
All sanity that I once had,
as miniscule as that was,
ceases to exists.
The next day you're fine.
You reach for me.
You embrace me with the warmth of your lips and the tingling of your fingertips.
But I pull away.
And so we begin again,
our quest to make sense
of what doesn't make sense.