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The big fucking Q. It's talking to me.

The list of my wants could stretch to the moon and back, and we would still have leftovers.
I'm tired of writing them down, tired of thinking about them, tired of not being able to act on them.
"He's a little old for you, out of your age range."
"Fuck you, Jacob."
I wish I knew why people act so surprised when I tell them I am married. I've had to say "my husband" five times this week, and I hated each of them, and paused.
"I told him I gave up yesterday."
"That's bullshit. You're not."
I warned him, too. He doesn't come here, not without some mention from me. I didn't think anyone was as stubborn as you, but he might have you beat, but only in that.
"Don't fall in love with me."
"I won't."
I'm sorry this is confusing. I just can't write any other way, and the yous weave in and out of each other. I'm the loom, not the weaver. I have no say, no sway in what patterns are made, I just hold them.
"I want to know you for the rest of my life. Don't you know how amazing you are?"
In that only bit of excitement I could elicit, and it's all been erased into that fucking twilight, where I'm walking down your street, or I'm standing in the cold, watching your arms move up and down, conducting some symphony you don't remember.

7:39 p.m. - 2013-02-27


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