Ill stay on your doorstep, wait in the rain, pour my heart out again and again. Sleep this off? It’s impossible to sleep when the brain learns to run.

How many times I fall and you continue to catch me is unimaginable. The addictions I bare are tattooed on me but hidden. Yet the continual pursuit when i'm hiding things from you and the future you want to give me. The hidden is comforting to me, its simple, its cheap, it makes sense to me, it’s become a learned behavior. The hiding spot has always been dark and scary but with each passing round it becomes darker, and scarier. Something is telling me that any light there is a bad idea, and would ruin the advantages I have of it being so dark now and so hidden. You asked if you could play, and I said close your eyes and count to 10, but you already knew where I would go. The same places I have hid so many times before but I forget time and time again that you always know where to find me.

A storm before meant a day inside. But now i can only imagine rain drenched hair and dancing in puddles with my wife. You don’t know what you had until it’s gone…..
Lazy romance is worthless words and actions that are meaningless. The sender is a believer that the receiver is fooled the romance is real and thoughtful. But the rouse can only last as long as her own internal fuse. The truth of the lazy attempts become reality when the going gets tough, but the tough have processed to move on. The scar tissue on her heart knitted by the needle of my skillful hand. A hand trained over time in half heartedly loving her believing that she is feeling more love than the effort I am putting into it. What a realization of how long she stayed around during a season of drought. Thirsting for love from a well that’s been dry for way too long. How can I expect her to go to the same dry well for love after continual trips returning with parched lips. The spring I’ve been holding back has been dammed shut with brick and mortar. But brick becomes dust under the pressure of losing her forever. The love flows out onto the floor because she’s taken her bucket elsewhere for what looks like more. Laced with arsenic, and silent killers the water she’s receiving is deceiving. I am the untrustable dry well though. I have no say into where to find clean water, because I was producing poison once of my own. Even when fresh pure love returns and fills my reservoir it’s too little too late. The wife who longed for this specific well has gone and won’t take the signals to come back. It just looks like bait now, like a trick or a scam. But only if she knew that the dam holding it all back was broken that the water is pure once more.