This isn't chemical

It isn't serotonin or vitamin D.  I've had plenty sun, and plenty sunrises.

This isn't because I couldn't star in the school play, or because my life has been harder than others.

This isn't because I am unable or unwilling to take the next step.

I don't know how.   I don't know how to tell each of you the words that will silence your confusion.   I don't know how to tell you what I've been meaning to say for years.

I don't know what else to say except I wish you came to me, my past.  I wish you came to me and reignited not the flame but the projector.  The slideshow of who I was to you.  Of who I was to myself.

I grow up insecure in love with my future self, fight for security and fall in love with my past self.

But again, this isn't chemical -  this isn't because I have aged or withered.

I feel this way because I want less of what I am and more of what I thought I would be.

I want, the next time you see me, to be the image of the man you know but the spit of the man only I know.

I want that meeting to be now, today, or soon.

Today's labour

It's hard to describe a pain you have felt when you're convinced nobody else has felt it before.  You search for the words that nobody has ever yet said about love lost and heartbreak but everything sounds like a love song. Everything sounds like something I've already heard before, and maybe that's because I only loved the way I've been taught.  I've cared, I've given advice, I've pour my heart out, I've cried, I've protected myself.  I've stayed too long and run away too quickly.  I've forgot to buy her flowers but I've purchased one too many.   I've hurt for days, looked for answers behind the window pane.  I've answered to whims and fancies and been punished by my own.  I've searched for truth in the past and worried endlessly about the future.  I've made myself fat with emotion and condemned my wealth of feeling.  And now, emaciated, I trust no fruit, I endeavor for no nectar.  

I garden with no intent to feast.  I plant seedlings of desire and hope they grow, but without tasting my own product will only be able to recognize a poor harvest.  Endlessly pruning, worrying about the strength of my vines rather than the sugars in my grapes.  And I pick my grapes at night so as to ease the process of production - but at night you cannot see the mold.  The lovely mold that makes the finest wines.  To see that you have to labour in the afternoon sun when free hearts run and everything is vibrant.  That's when I should out there, on my knees, caressing you with my hands, plucking you from your ground tether and filling my oak with you, only you.  Only you today, not tomorrow's you - that is another labour.  

I should look to describe today's love rather than yesterday's love lost.  I should describe the pain of today's labour instead of the pain of yesterday's.