The Question

I spend yet another night, jonsing for a kiss only you can give me, longing to be held only in your arms, wanting to cling onto you and lay down in our blissful silence, saying so much but at the same time, not much at all. I want to be in sync with you and know the ins and outs of everything that is you. It's you, it's always been you, but it's never been me, it's not me, and it'll probably never be me. Knowing this, I ask myself, do I love you or hate myself that much?


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