To a boy.

You are disappointed that I am not a mythical God who will save you from all his fears and insecurities, and now that your away from me out of your comfort zone, question if you still love me. I grew up when I was 18, all alone, everywhere, whoring and wounding my emotions and psychosis everywhere, without a support group. Why must I coach someone else?

I watch you drift in an out of sleep on the sofa, your fine delicate eyelids opening and closing over those beautiful eyes. You're a mess. You always have been, always will be. Will I commit to support a mess? Can I commit to a mess? Do I still love this mess that lashes out to me in search of a reaction? I originally fell in love with this extremely well-intentioned, sweet, and brave disarray of personality quirks and quibbles. Is it okay to think this way? Your thick dark hair is strewn across your pronounced forehead; your long fingers occasionally traipse over your resting legs; your bones are collapsed into a pile of supreme, natural relaxation that I have never and probably will never experience. You look like firewood, burning across the room into an ashy pile of yourself - strong fire, lost fire, scared fire. Im jelous of your ability to turn off your brain. You loose everything, you break everything, you forget everything. But I love you. You're not as tender and comforting as you once were. But you love me. I think.