how the manner in which we've been loved becomes an expectation... something we become accustomed to and comfortable with, regardless of its quality.
blind to the tattered doll i had become, still longing for his touch - gentle or not.
i think back to the midnight kisses, the madness of it all.
some nights it's all i can do to cry, wish, and wait.
my mind flickers back and forth to the beginning, or maybe it was the end.
drowning, screaming, pushing, searching.
the anchor tied to my ankles pulling me down shattered and severed.
i could breathe again.
blush caressed my skin, salt tickled my eyes.
i just remember the richest of feelings, the fire in my chest ignited and alive.
sand in my hair, we danced on our backs; toes outstretched towards the waves.
it seemed impossible that this could ever end or become insignificant.
tries multiplied and went unanswered.
emptiness made for hollow company, becoming too familiar.
yet still in that twisted way of mine, i crave and yearn for that emptiness.
even if the rich feelings will remain strangers and the fire will never light again.
emptiness means it happened, means it was real.
instead of nothing at all.
