Longbones

Some days, some hours, I seem to be made of empathy. You spend an hour and a half basically saying "I fucked up, I'm sorry, so sorry, and I'm having a hard time dealing with it," and I spend the same amount of time trying to drag you out of Mopeville because I do care about you, in a way that has nothing to do with boys and girls and birds and bees and genitals and... other, converse genitalia. You're going through a withdrawal phase, set off by me being with someone else, and you being alone. It happens. Almost every goddamn time it can, it will. I used to imagine this conversation. I thought I would be able to gloat, that I would feel fufilled. I don't. I just wish you weren't in pain, wish I could take everyone I love far, away from such concepts as loss and can't-have-it-so-I-want-it. Somewhere where I could explain to you that it's okay, and you'd believe me. Somewhere where I wasn't worried that I'm going to say "I'm there for you." and then not be, because we both know, Longbones, what will happen if our conversing interferes with happiness, his and mine. Anyway, I hope you take my advice to heart, and view the way you feel as a being-alive tax. It makes it a little easier. And I'm glad that you're happy that I'm happy.