My insides are sad.

I'm sitting two steps below the middle line [a ponzarism].

There are few things that are very good in life. Friendships with love and conversations and connections. Writing songs. Rivers. Sisters. Lying on the driveway staring at the stars. The hope of something better. The hope that things will be the way they used to be. "And above all else, love."

my heart is heavy.
I am sorry.
Cardboard.
Filetsr

and we take it for granted
and we let it go
and we fill ourselves with regret
but it is not there for us to hold.
it is gone, gone, gone, gone, gone, gone.

I speak of love often. Perhaps because I do not fully understand it and it baffles me.

I think I basically love everyone. I'm probably wrong. And if I am, which is most definitely inevitable, I can still whole-heartedly account for seven individuals.

Seven.
Seven in eighteen and a half years.

and we take it for granted
and we let it go
and we fill ourselves with regret
but it is not there for us to hold.
it is gone, gone, gone, gone, gone, gone.

A few months ago, I told one of my seven that I have a hard time distinguishing between "friend love" and "romantic love". It's true. It continues to be true. It's just... love.

love.
love.
love.

The hope for something better is a glutton. And the selfishness of possibility jeopardizes my precious "one every two years and eight months". And suddenly, one of the few truly good things in life is not good.

Perhaps nothing is good.
And perhaps nothing is bad.
Everything just is.
That's what one of my seven says.

I told Aimee I loved her the most.
She says she doesn't believe me.
I am crying.

and we take it for granted
and we let it go
and we fill ourselves with regret
but it is not there for us to hold
it is gone, gone, gone, gone, gone, gone.

[what have I done?]