Love Labor's Lost

volumes of mis-adventures

perfect? right? wrong.

It starts with a sneaking suspicion. A tickle in the back of the mind. It’s easy to brush away. Like a snowflake landing on your tongue, melting as quickly as the sensation of its presence occurs. The tickle moves a bit more aggressively hinting that something might not be fair, it might not be right, it just might be wrong. The throbbing begins, it’s pulsating, growing like a cancerous tumor, moving down to the pit of the stomach. An uncomfortable ache that can’t be assuaged. A tumultuous torment of discomfort; a queasy ache. Instead of relief, long deep sighs escape out the mouth, uncontrollably. Sitting still is impossible. Walking around alleviates nothing. It’s not fair. He’s kind, he’s sweet, he’s attentive, he’s compassionate, and perfect in so many ways, but the impulse isn’t there. The want; the desire; the thirst.

The phone vibrates. It’s him, checking in, making sure your day went smoothly, that everything is going well. You feel awful, the sneaking suspicion has transformed into an angry inner conscience, and, for the first time, I have to be the one to say: I don’t feel that way about you, I want to be friends. And the words twist like a knife, wrenching inside me, because I wish I felt more. I wish I wanted him the way he wants me.

he’s perfect.

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