Notes

It hurts. I want to talk to her all the time; I want effortless conversations in which we both could talk about the things that go on in our heads. I want to have redundant exchange of words that last all night long. I want her to talk to me about her day and why she spent hours avoiding her little sister or why she wishes she should have went to the gym instead of engulfing that entire bag of chips. I want to tell her about my day and how I wish I could have spent it with her. It hurts because she doesn't want the same. She only talks to me when it's convenient for her; she leaves the conversation when it no longer fulfills her desire of boredom or dissipation of time. I don't blame her because I know it's for the reason that she does not care about me the way I care about her. She does not love me the way that I love her. It isn't her fault that I constantly feel alone and captivated within a melancholic state when we are not conversing. It's my fault. It hurts because it'll never be the way that I want it to be. She will only talk to me when there isn't a slight bit of inconvenience despite how much I give to her. It hurts because my happiness depends upon my existence coexisting with hers but how will I ever receive authentic contentment when she does not want the same thing as I do?