My writing is so labored and heavy. I'm clogging myself up.

I don't think people realize that I love him. That we sit around and do what best friends do, and then kiss afterwards. We go on walks and sing each others songs. He's reading my books, my Stienbeck. We are not each other's accessories. This mix of lust, nurturing and friendship is too much for me - but it's all it is. There will be no withering and dying of hearts.
But how do I know?
It wasn't like I was loved before.

The air is so dry in my lungs for being wet on my face. White skies are bleeding into the horizons, erasing hills and dulling colors.

Missed anything?
livejournal - 2005-03-02
romantic love - 2005-03-02
caitlin and i - 2005-02-28
the backyard - 2005-02-28
together - 2005-02-27