The familiar kind of love is happening. To know how exactly it feels to have you around. Sleep next to you. To have your arm around me all night. To see you leave in the morning, spending the last few moments. It has just been so little time. How did we get this familiar?
Can we make do with this familiar kind of love?
We are all constructs. Constructed meticulously by ourselves for the people we want. If we want love from them- we all must be a certain way. For at some point we are convinced that we are not worthy of love just the way we are. We are that incomplete, that imperfect and that desperate to be that perfect construct that someone may love.
Why must we be such constructs even when we go around telling everyone that I am perfectly comfortable in my skin. But which skin is this?
Being complete is a myth.
Thinking that I cannot do without you is a myth.
My life falling apart in to deplorable fragments when you touch me – is a myth.
Your kisses are a myth.
Your skin melting to my touch is a myth.
The longer I linger in your eyes. The harder it is for me to write about it.
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