Haven’t slept well in days and the sleep deprivation gives me the opportunity to analyse my sensory set, the stimuli around me losing cultural significance.

I don’t know how to comfort others in pain.

I know how to cry but when I cry it’s like I’m performing Pain as a bad, unconfident Method Actor, unable to feel comfortable choosing whether to sniff, wipe tears from my face or bawl like a baby.

The sociopoliticoeconomic world spins around me and I continually observe what’s going on, secure in the give-and-take of who wants to be the the next status quo.

So I am here in myself, seeing if there’s something greater than myself worth getting back out of myself to pursue.

I turn to you.  You know who you are.

Have we ever been alone together?

Would I ever let that happen?

I know you are in pain.

I also know I’m terrible at comforting others.

Terrible, that is, until I let you see my own pain.

Why is it so terrible for you to see my pain?  Everytime I was alone with a person and shared pain turned into something physically intimate.

I’m not trying to get your clothes off.  I’m in love with your thoughts, your intelligence, the look in your eyes telling me there’ll always be more to learn about you.

I don’t want to be alone with you (even though I do) because I know what becomes of me and I don’t want you to think I’m just after your body.

I don’t want you to think I’m like the other guys.

That’s why I hide behind these words.

Tears don’t stain electronic text.