I realize I'd been rather private about her. I'm not sure that I'd intended it this way, but I do prefer it. It's strange though. I have this constant inner conflict. I want to show her out and shout about her to the world. However, I also want to keep us within the walls of our world, while paying no mind to the world peeking in on us. We're so snug in here. We're so cozy just us two. It's selfish, maybe? I just can't help but think...fuck everyone.

I've sat myself here so many times trying to get the right words to even talk about her. Just so I can say something about her. I come up blank here. But then I'll sit myself somewhere else, with a pen and paper, and I'll write to her pages of everything I thought I didn't have to say. I feel as if I have a lot to say. It's just that it doesn't seem to matter if it isn't directed to her. If it isn't written in second person point of view for her, it locks up inside me until I do get to her. I'm stumbling. I don't quite have the words for the rest of the world. It's just that I've spent so many years writing pedestaled professions of love about my past loves. I used up such good words even when I didn't mean them. I've faked being in love so many times that I'm afraid I'll do this love injustice by elaborating on it in the same fashion I used to do before. 

All I have right now are words for her. But again, that's all that matters. When the moment does arrive though, when I can string the right sentences together that I find worthy, it'll be grotesquely beautiful. It'll be sickeningly sweet. We sicken ourselves. The rest isn't ready yet.