Sitting there at the in between, breathing the salt and earth. You are still not here with me. Nothing but the wind, I still am. A constant blur and mess. If you must know, I am torn writing this. The moment when settling feels like an option, instead of the cliff, I chose wrong. Again.

In that perfect world, I would chose. Your sheets. Your outline in the distance. Your scent. Your curtain. Your hands. You.

I... don't want to get up.

Where do I go from here.

I hate this weakness. But I am made up of it.