Devolution

Some days I feel this journal has become a series of unsent love letters.

I crave your company and a bottle of wine in your kitchen. I lack the freedom to drive past your house wondering if you'll notice.

It's never been the sex I've craved though that's always been the tool used to open the door. I suppose I should have learned years ago to stop fucking my friends.

When I think of you it's always your company I'm longing for, your pontificating while I sat silently embracing your rawness, your ego, and the fabrications you embellished to mold into your own truth. I crave that unabashed bravado the ability in myself to be still. I could have tolerated you from our distance forever if you hadn't been so possessive.

My life again echoes the busy yet stagnant the loud nothingness.

I miss the lake, your words, my wholeness.

I don't miss your sex but I'd be willing to partake if I could have your conversation back.