How do I know you're real? Well I don't.
But everything about you tells me that you most certainly are.
I feel that your torment is real.
After dealing with target practice dummies with fake problems and paper hearts,
it gets easy to pick out when something of a little more substance comes my way.
After rehearsed crying jags and crocodile tears, the way you
*modestly*
say "just... stuff," when I ask what's wrong... and you don't drop any stupid and obvious hints afterwards... well, it speaks volumes to me.
There were tears standing in your eyes in the cafeteria today.
Tears that wanted out, that had been kept inside too much and too long, tears that wanted to dry on someone's shoulder... but you wouldn't let them.
I could see something like real gratitude fight out in your smile, just for listening to what you allowed yourself to tell me.
I miss you.
I miss you already.
I miss your realism and sensitivity. I miss your inquisitive and hopeful eyes.
Outside too. We left the cafeteria so you could have a smoke, but I think you just wanted to be out of public view for a while. Out of the view of your boyfriends sister, so you could get one of those hugs I told you I was so great at giving.
Outside too, the tears came back. Or at least they wanted to, again.
But we still hadn't gotten away, and your demons were still grinding their axes inside your head.
I mean, I look at all the fake ones, pounding down my door demanding solutions and more solutions,
and then there's you... the equivalent leaving a short message on the answering machine, or a post-it on my desk...
and not whining things either, just... things. Sweet things, curious things, and nice things through and through.
So when,
or if,
I ever do get you to open up to me,
I know that for the first time in a long while
I won't be sighing about your problems and in my head and thinking,
'here we go again'...
Back.