This is my life.

From piece to piece, clothes and shoes scattered everywhere. Just like my thoughts, it's funny how that works.

From nights of drinking to days and days. They've all seemingly blurred together.

There's things all over the place, my bed is still on the floor. Wood, pieces of the bed, right next to the wall. I manage to end up hitting my leg or her arm on it every now and then. We get too carried away.

I guess she must like it. Same thing, over again, huh?

Brilliant under achiever with the bed hair, and the fuzzy facial hair with drug problems and a disturbing past.

Apparently, there's always someone willing to partake, willing to discover and maybe even hopefully change. Somehow turn things around.

What seemingly goes un-noticed is the fact that this is what you sign up for. You don't get to complain about something you signed up for. Perhaps that's what brings about the will for abandonment and desire to desperately get out later in life. Huh.

It always starts out the same, though.

There are so many things running through my head, but this medium has been compromised. It is beautifully unfortunate that we're still playing games with each other.

I'm sending out encrypted and vague messages, and you have the excuse of boredom you're still using to hang on. To "reach out."

Imagine the weight on my chest when I see a tree that has just blossomed and it reminds me of the things the girl before you used to say to me on the phone. I understand now, I know exactly what she meant. How hard it is to move on.

And when the new girl puts her hands on my chest and feels my heart beat, I wonder if she can feel all the weight and heaviness.

I remember feeling the same way about you. Uncertain, and skeptical. Scared and unwilling. So vulnerable, and unconsciously sabotaging things.

It didn't work though. Perhaps it never does.

...

But I'm comfortable with the idea of not having choice now.

I just hope she doesn't feel the worry lines that appear on my forehead when our foreheads inevitably touch.

Just hope she doesn't try to dig too deep into the way my eyes drift off into the distance and my mind wanders off into the past.

The cup I still drink out of, the lava lamp that's still my night light and the comforter we use to stay warm when we're falling asleep in each other's arms.

The boxes I still keep, physical and metaphorical.
The pictures, the little pieces of seemingly nothing and the memory.

The cheesecake she's going to bake me and the Skype calls she's going to be waiting on.

I'd like to believe things have changed.

Here's a blurry picture of a damn ferret.