Drawing myself out, putting my feelings to words or song is a small itch that turns into a demand when I feel like I am overflowing with emotion. Hope, lost dreams, and the fickle nature of my heart all combine to an ache in my side and a heavy head that I find difficult to lay to rest.

Why should things be as they are, difficult at best? Why can't I find ease or rest when I am alone? Why must I always soothe or worry when there is so little of myself to go around that I just sit and stew about my love and loss?

If I really did love him, would I let him go? Would I willingly relinquish the fist that holds him so tightly to myself that I would be free of this pain? Sometimes I can't breathe but for longing, and I can't say what I feel because I'm afraid of losing what small claim I have on him.

Even though it's hard to separate myself from my desire for companionship, can I not come to a compromise? Can I catch with my two hands the thing that keeps me awake and prevents me from enjoying even simple things, sometimes?

What is this desire, and why am I ashamed of it? Yes, I want him. His time, his touch, I covet his gaze and his dark eyes and his hot mouth. It hurts to be separated from him, the only hours I spend with him in my mind, played out in dreams that turn to nightmares when I wake up and he's not there.

I can't accept that I will not see him again. I hold on to the tiniest sliver of knowledge that he likes me, enjoys my company, wants to spend time with me, when I know a taste of him will set my heart to blossom and put color in my cheeks.

Why do I weep as I pen these words? Is it so hard to give up such a long-held belief that he and I could be together? Am I deluding myself, by building up something in my mind and heart that doesn't reflect his reality? I beg and scrape for each precious syllable, a word from him could feed me for weeks. I am starved for this man, and he has no idea the depths of my passion.

Can I continue to live like this? What is real about this unwritten tale that I cannot accept has already ended? And what if it has?

Even though my pillow is wet from tears of longing, no matter how pretty I make myself, I will have this hole in me, raw, ragged, bright with fresh blood and torn between despair and hope beyond hope, a pipe dream that will never come to fruition.

I can't let go. I don't know where this reckless pursuit will lead when the only cost is to myself, and the only casualty is my soul's content.