worried about what's going to happen in august.

i tell her i will be okay. because i will be.

because, eventually, i always am.

and i knew, going into it, that arizona was always there.

she says i kill her. that im a killer, and i just can't help it.

i cover my head with a pillow and lay there, stopping everything i want to say.

everything except you are great.

you make me happy.

i am lucky.

i think she knows what i'm fighting back.

she looks at me with this concern in her eyes, she doesn't want me to be hurt because of this, she doesn't want this to end hard for me.

and twenty minutes will go by and she'll look at me and she'll tell me i kill her and say my name because that's all she can think to say.

i want to be more of a cynic. i want to honestly believe there is no point.

but that seems, now, right now, like that's the coward's way to approach life.

it's easier to live without a goal then to keep reaching for something that'll always leave.