my aim is true.

(alison)

I lied. Again.

It's not over. It's not over. It's not over.

I spent part of the day at Harry's, lounging on his couch, petting his dogs (literally, not a figurative sexual assertion), meeting his parents (for the first time in two years, oddly. I think I may have managed to perhaps impress them a bit), stealing his CDs, and channel-surfing between monk (!) and malcolm. Oh, Harry.

It was strange, ethereal, surreal.

I was suffering from this disconnect where my mind wandered with touching lips and my being remained, static, warm, wholly conscious of new haircuts and wanderlust and romantic, yes romantic tension.

As I drove away after a gripping hug-- me, clutching, too tightly-- and promises to keep in touch, I felt an emptiness greater than anything I had experienced prior, and I was overwhelmed by, simply and melodramatically, the immensity of my sentiments for him. My hands drove me away, but my heart boarded the train right back to him.

In all my goodbyes, I never once felt the tug of heartstrings and the stinging itch of tears crowding the ducts in the exterior compartments of my eyes. Until Harry.

Harry.

It's not over. It's never over.

And, if it's not love, it's damn close.

fuck me for letting go of chances. fuck me for not taking a chance.