Reading a diary; of lovers, not lovers at all; brings everything back to me. It hurts so bad to see that this can never be. There's love; oh, so much love; but I never allow it to be enough for me. Reading her words, there are tears in my eyes, and bruises are forming on my heart once again. Her words are beautiful, but they make me sick. I'm not doing this purposely; I'm just tired of being me, and only me; no one by my side. Someone as beautiful as she, mostly. It's all I want. The perfect Christmas gift would be holding her close, and knowing it's me she dreams of. But I would hate to tear her from the love she already has; I'm selfish, but I cannot help this. She is perfect to me; everything I wish I could be, everything I wish to posses. Reading her words makes it almost impossible to tolerate. I know I should stop, but her intelligence and beauty keeps me coming back for her words. It's like a drug that I can't get enough of, a habit that I can't seem to break. Her words tear me apat inside, but they fill me with love. I love her more and more each time I see her face, or read her words. And I despise myself more and more when I realize once again that this will never be. I believe it is my fault, though I know she would never blame me. I've done nothing, and I know this. But I can't stop myself from thinking there's something I've missed; something that would turn her heart my way. I love to believe that things will change one day; that my kindess, and all the beauty she believes I posses, will bring her to me. I know these are just dreams, but when I dream of her, my smile cannot fade.
