Half a page of scribbled lines…

I like you, I really do. Honest.

But I sit back and think – do I need you next to me on my bed?  Can I actually share that space with you?  Do I need you staring at me from the passenger seat of my car – staring at me each time I stare out the left window? 

Do I need you looking down at me from my desk, as I slouch in my executive chair, trying to read boring legal briefs and trying to avoid your inviting looks?  Do I need to know that you’re prancing in the background (all over it, actually) when I’m bent over my food?

Do I need to run back home in a frenzy each night to make sure you’re safe – to make sure you’re still all there – to make sure nobody’s taken you away from me? 

Do I need to pledge to you, for better or for worse, in sickness and health, the remaining years of my life? 

More importantly, do I want to do all of the above?

 

I don’t need to, but I guess I certainly want to. I mean, they’re my books, my precioussess. I couldn’t leave them to rot. No fucking way.

I need new bookshelves, yes.