There are always those times where my hands are not able to reach out and touch you. I want to but I just can't quite seem to do it. I'm not sure if it's the voices I hear outside my window. They are having their own conversations attempting to make right of what is. Or if it's something more than this. It's always something more than this. The flowers are covering everything in a way which I like. The colours are so vibrant and I pick off the leaves and throw them out of the window one by one. I'm letting go of times gone by in hopes that you will come back to me and take me away from this place. I'm always letting go. I wait in hope that one day it will come where I can do this for myself. Waiting is so painful and takes me on this journey into the abyss where everyone we know is talking to each other in that language we both like. It's the language that makes no sense to others. The one that we made up when we were 5 and use to hide under my bed hoping no one would find us. My mum would shout and try to make us do things we no longer wanted to do like obsessively clean things that did not need cleaning. Fun was not in her vocabulary neither was relaxing. I like the way we rebelled as though we were somehow different and above this world. We have always been different and that's what I like the most about you. My fingers touch that scar which I love. I have to check to see if it's still there everyday. If it ever went away I'm not sure what I would do. But that's the beauty of scars they may fade but will never leave us. Bigger and better things are coming our way and we sit and wait whilst sipping tea. Sssh let's pretend we are not here and count the stains that are covering my window.