Dear " "

If I ever pushed you away, I didn't mean to.
When I told you I don't want to talk about it, or I have nothing to say, I do, I am just looking for the right words. Give me a minute and if I can tell you, I will.
I try to be a struggling mix of real and perfect at the same time. At the moment, I am working on that ratio, which is somewhere close to 7:4.
When I get quiet sometimes, really quiet, it is because I have too much to say. I have thought of too many things to tell you all at once, and I don't know what to say first.
I get immaturely jealous of anyone who gets to speak to you and touch you and see you on a daily basis. You see, I missed you and miss you really easily.
But I also like that we can be so apart and we are both okay. Space is good. Space is good too.
I love the way we love some of the same things, and I love how we love entirely different things.
My head is a complicated pile of thoughts,
and fears,
and cravings,
and dreams,
and this tangled up nostalgia for the past and, somehow, for the future.
I am flawed and I am human and I am broken and I am trying.
And I am one person.
And I am to hands and I am one heart.
And I loved you, and I love you, and I am glad you were there.