Wilt thou be gone? it is not yet near day: It was the nightingale, and not the lark, That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear; Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate-tree: Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.-Romeo And Juliet, III.5
Time seems to be passing awfully fast. We have seven days until our indefinite separation begins. I am scared. I don't want him to go away. I want him to be here, and be different.
Everything feels very important, very dear. It is hard to stay in the moment when such weight is hanging on the future. It is hard to detach when there's so much looming. It's hard to stay in myself, to be sure what is right. I kind of want to do everything for him in the next few days because I won't have a chance to for a while. I want him to be happy, comfortable. I want him. I can't have him. I can't make him happy, comfortable. I can't fix all he's broken. I hate this.
Painting by George Mendoza
Everything feels very important, very dear. It is hard to stay in the moment when such weight is hanging on the future. It is hard to detach when there's so much looming. It's hard to stay in myself, to be sure what is right. I kind of want to do everything for him in the next few days because I won't have a chance to for a while. I want him to be happy, comfortable. I want him. I can't have him. I can't make him happy, comfortable. I can't fix all he's broken. I hate this.
Painting by George Mendoza
