Toiling Water

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I'm doing this for my own good. I'm blogging once again and possibly going to talk about all the things I've never wanted to talk about, to graze every inch of my unshaven skin with a didactic razor, hoping to find a means to solve my seemingly perpetual need to overanalyze, in which case this exercise deems itself redundant, running on and merely feeding my fancy for wordiness.

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All is well, believe it or not, it really is. It's just my universe waiting for me to admit it. But here I am, stubborn little me, always having to make everything difficult for myself and not believing the water is hot even when I boiled the pot myself.

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He bathes in it, that one whom I've called mine, but he seems to have a separate tub, a separate robe, a kind of togetherness without me in the same room. I hardly get to see him and rely on the terseness of technology to bridge the obvious gap. I don't even think I'm being demanding, but what do I really know about relationships when all I keep doing is bring the kettle to a boil?

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I'm scalding in my attempt to be silent.

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