You vex me.
You dredge up the past in some simplistic statement and suck me in, spiral down into webpages for a sign of your name, keywords and it's all spina bifida foundation and space: here's to me for remembering how you feel about asteroids and inside jokes.
You remain frustratingly relevant in a world I've built without you, and what I can't fully erase I intend to suppress; a flaming foot stomp on the fuck you I've sent your way so many times.
Fuck you for being interesting. and mysterious. And for sending messages like that, when I find it months later, myself, caught red handed ripping up the past again. At least I know you do, too.
Is there a future? I so enjoy your company. But you always want from me something I cannot give. I feel it, it pulls. Into bad dreams where I wake up shivering, scared, and think, if you were a good man, a really good man, why did I find you there?
Want can pull a man to madness, don't you agree?
