Pretending

I feel like Morello, dreaming up this love that isn't there. I'm trapped in my own prison and I keep thinking you're outside waiting for me once I recoup from this incarceration, this mental instability. I tell myself all the time you are mine. I comfort my growing emotions, my loneliness, my eager desperation with thoughts about us and the time we'll spend once I'm free. You're waiting for me. I tell myself these things. I dance around in my room, making playlists in my head of songs we'll listen to when we make love, drive from a date, clean the house together, and get married. But what am I thinking? You don't even come to visit. I look out the window from time to time and you're never there. There are always birds, though. And I tell them, with crying eyes, "please, please, please tell him I'm waiting."

I'm crazy. I'm fucking crazy.