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What I'm really scared of is that I'll never find someone like you,
Who communicates and laughs with me the way you do.
I find myself so welded up with stress, not the stress that makes me love you anyless, it's the inevitable kind.
Fear for the end. And I know you feel it too.

Initially I didn't want to write about you, I didn't want to put into words what we’re simultaneously both thinking. What we will have to fully acknowledge come our inevitable admission day. When I'm off to NewYork. Then when August rolls around. When we no longer know each other. No longer will I call you, though you so desperately pray for us to never fall out of touch. Nor, no longer will I lay beside you, how is this fair? As your mind's been made up on this idea of salvation in some other worldly place because you believe that its isolation will save you from whatever sinking spiral you've begun to fall into.
You choose isolation through escapetion like your heroes: Burrows, Ginsberg and Kakurak. Who went off to Mexico, Paris, South America, and the likes of that.
It's so odd, because I used to put up with this ideal that young men seem to believe. That all women are meant to be caretakers and bystanders to their destruction of self and relationships with others.
However, no longer will I play the role of the nagging, unaware female companion who believes her instructive encouragement of enlightenment she bestows to you —all while she shoves her own nihilistic views away to improve yours—, might have any impact on an psilocybin soul. I've tried in the past to, like, not to love: the low affect tone of the depressive adolescent male.
I call, it's ten p.m, way past your bed time. You now put your phone away at nine-thirty p.m because you think that's the easiest anecdote in your self-up journey. But now it's ten p.m and you picked up.

“Hey didnt think youd be up,” I say
“I am.” He answers.
We talk, I talk, ask if he is scrolling through his phone, writing something on the side, “You don't seem present,” I say.
“If you don't want to talk, we don't have to, I just wanted to hear about your day.”
“No, no it's fine I just don't feel like myself right now.” He answers. Oh, my baby.
We talked a bit more. I rehash my statement to him, as brutally honest as I am I dance around just hanging up, ‘you know you don't have to talk to me right now if you don't want to.’ I don't say that, as detached his attention may seem to be, I currently know it's not me.
Then you say, “I think I'm going to just stare at a blank wall for a bit.” Oh okay. “But I'll see you Saturday.”
I answer, “you too.”
I know what he's about to say, I hear the first phoneme of the phrase I L–ove you, but I've already begun to hang up. Why do I always do this? I don't know. I become displeased and selfish, retracting my statements of love.
It's 10:48 P.M….
He texts me, ‘I'm not trying to be distracted. I’m like weird as fuck right now I’m sorry.’
‘Hey don't worry about it, I understand love you.’ I don't add I, I simply don't want to.

‘I love you too,’ you say. I know you mean it.
All we have left are these last blissful months of a fostering first, easy simplistic, love. Or what should have been. I so wish it was.
But maybe I just simply wish to leave you now, I wish for us to stop growing into each other. I want to pull my roots out from under the secure surface of love we've built so naturally.
Have you started to do that?

I don't want to run at the first sign of breakage you show, (you know I will if that's what you want).
I was so close to bestowing vulnerability to you, selfishly I no longer want to, I no longer can. Why should I? Why should you know me if this isn't going to last, and why should I help you, why waste myself, and my love on uncertainty. A dreamt up antidote of fictional romance. Lost love, suddenly found again. Maybe we do end up in the same direction. We continue speaking, remaining as one, only across the country. I'm too scared to bet on those chances. They'd probably only lead to us weathering away. I guess we'll just have to be plucked, from one another, in our beds filled with dirt.