I'm freakin' out man.

I'm lying in the dark and I can barely swallow and I'm thinking about you and I'm thinking about me and I'm not thinking about us because there is no us.  I made sure of that.

But I'm thinking about me and I'm thinking about the person I've become, and wondering how I got like this.  And I'm wondering if I really became like this or if I've always been this way, but I've just never had to choose before.  I mean, I guess I've always been easy and I've always been careless but I thought I was still a pretty good person.  So I'm thinking about me.

And I'm freakin' out man.

I'm thinking about me and I'm thinking about you and I'm thinking about all the words I didn't say and all the words you didn't say back.  I'm thinking about all of the words I did say and all of the words you still didn't say back.  And I'm wondering if you ever even read my letter or if you just threw it away, and if you are still mad at me or if you just don't care anymore.  But I will probably never know because we don't talk anymore.  And even though I have very little hope at this point, I can't stop myself from wishing that your name would show up on my caller ID.  And the first words I would say would be to ask you if I ever told you about the martini glass next to your name in my contacts and tell you that Leonard totally has a chance.  And the second words I would say would be to tell you that I love you and I am so sorry.

On second thought, maybe I'd better say those in the opposite order.

I'm freakin' out man.

I'm sitting in the dark and my ears are killing me and I'm thinking about you.  I'm thinking about how I want to call you right now, but I won't because I'm still afraid of what you will do even though it can't get any worse than this, but also because I can't generate enough sound to travel past my teeth.  

I'm thinking about me and I'm thinking about you and I'm thinking about us even though there is no us. But I wish there were.  Maybe if you could still love me after all that I've done, I could too.  And I'm thinking about how much I want to prove to you that I can be everything that you believed I could be.  Not just for you but for me too.  Even though I will never be a part of your brilliant vision and your radiant future, maybe I can still have a tiny sliver of that for myself.

But fate has a sadistic sense of humor, and timing is everything.

And I don't know what to do about how much I miss your earnest eyes and the map of the world on your bedroom wall, your weird sense of humor, dancing in the gazebo, and spanish music and our growing list of lookout points.  Sandpaper. Talks about God, about science, the color of the mountains and the way the streets start to sparkle in the evening, cannibalism, Finland and topless old ladies, yesterday and tomorrow and the next ten years, and how soft your carpet is.  I miss light saber fights and parfaits and duets at your piano and how I wasn't even mad when you pushed my bare skin against the ice cold metal of your car.

But I'll never get that back will I?

I'm freakin' out man.

Apparently they don't write songs about this.