Comfortable—
   in my routines,
      my rhythms,

      a life that fit just well enough.

I didn’t need more.

Didn’t crave it.

Didn’t ask.

Then she arrived—
     and ruined that comfort entirely.

Now—

I want. (her)

Constantly.

Restlessly.

I ache—
  in places I never knew were hollow,

  until she lit them—
     from the inside.

I push my body—
    twist it into shapes
    that *hurt*

    but somehow heal.

I pick up the guitar—
   fingers stumbling,
   strings biting—

   and keep playing,

   because somehow the music sounds like her.

But wanting isn't enough—
    it moves,
    it pulls me…

I'll fly straight into winter’s teeth—

Below freezing,
    the kind of cold
    that seeps into my bones

    and makes me curse the air itself.

I can’t stand the cold.

But I’d stand in it forever if it meant standing next to her.

Because—

I’m learning—
    new things,
    old things,
    hard things—

    all because something in me…
    can’t
         stay
             _still_

Not anymore.

It’s uncomfortable—
     this hunger,
     this burning,
     this reaching—

     but it—

     _feels_

     more like living
     than anything comfort ever gave me.

So, no—

I’m not comfortable.

It's something so much better…
               to be— *alive*.