I know that I talked about chasing the fire… and I was. I was chasing it hard. I wanted to feel it. I wanted to feel that passion, that closeness.

I found it. I’ve felt it.

Now I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s a choice, yes. I’m choosing to think about it. I’m choosing to feel that spark and it’s one sided but that rush is worth every second. The touch, the amount that I give… it’s unheard of.

As I sit down here, I think about it- What the fuck am I doing?

Ask and you shall receive. No, he asks and he receives.

I’m addicted. It’s a problem and I need rehab, badly. I need to get away, move away- far away to get away from this addiction of starting a fire that never reaches a full flame. There’s a spark, for a second… then it dies out and it’s up to me to show that passion that I’m so good at to reignite it.

It’s all on me, this entire situation and reading into things that don’t exist. It’s all on me. What have I done?

Have I ruined everything? Have I pushed too far? Have I asked too many questions? Gotten too comfortable? Have I forgotten our agreement? Have I misread everything… Wait, there hasn’t been anything to misread that I haven’t put myself into… What have I done?

He’s probably with her. The one that he chose that night. She has something I don’t and I’m jealous. I am. I try to feel beautiful- I think I look nice, and that’s really the only opinion that should matter… But if that was true, I wouldn’t be jealous.

I’ve come to find that it has nothing to do with the women that he looks at on TV… has nothing to do with personality… has nothing todo with the work that is done or the work ethic behind it.

It’s comfort. He’s comfortable with them. With the ones that may not be as tall as me, thin as I am or as smart and hard working but the fact that he’s known then and been with them. they win. They will always win…

He gets the high, I get the side effects.

That night when I saw him with her, my blood boiled. Same way it did at the bar that cold night in March when I drove home drunk. I can still see it, hoping out of a black truck with a beautiful blonde who stopped to compliment me. He walked right by without a word. Not even a look. My heart broke that day. Not because I had fallen for him, but because I wanted to.

Fast forward to now when I live in his basement… again. I can see it, her arms wrapped around his waste outside the bar as he stood there smoking. As I replayed the night before when it was me wrapped in his arms… him in my bed… me in his…

Last night I slept in his bed, I put my hand on his chest and he put his hand on mine. And we slept. Tonight, he’s gone. Makes sense.