I am not angsty enough to produce passionate writing anymore. It seems like my best writing comes when I am in dark places. But these days I am happy. I just want to write about puppies and raninbows and butterflies. ok so maybe not thaaaat happy. But still, life is good. After that dark place, I think my standards for happiness may have lowered. And that is a good thing. Life doesn't always have to be perfect in order to be happy. These days I can wake up, be excited for the day, see my wonderful friends, feel the sunshine on my face, and smile. Because I am happy. But you already knew this.

So here is some good writing. from my real journal. from long ago.

You make me ache

I am always aching.
When I sleep, when I wake
When I take a single breath
You make me ache.

For your face. Your eyes. Your hands.
For that dark room, those cool sheets, and
two pairs of cold, bare feet.
You make me ache.

For that look. That quiet caress.
The passionate screams just underneath the silence.
Those moments that define our being.
I ache.

Your voice with its boyish twang
That resonates with tales of growing up
Those eyes that see the world in all
its glory and also at its darkest
I ache for you.

So whisper those words to me once more
So I can wear them like an invisible crown
Let me feel you against my skin
So I may remember that this is real
And I will ache.

[Pretty good for some really awkward, awful first time sex. Everything the first time should be]