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It comes in waves, the feeling. You know the one where your heart is in your throat and your teeth are in your lip and everything about you is nothing but a tremble.

There's peace in the upheaval, calm in the lightening... love in the tragedy. It's an addiction that's suicide to walk away from, but rushed martyrdom to keep ahold of. It's dissolving at night to the steel guitar in country music and waking up to every pop-punk, 4-chord that's ever made your veins pulsate.

What's worse than unrequited romance is when you know for a matter of fact that it's very required, just impossible...

Impossible to swallow, impossible to sob, impossible to scream.

It's impossible to move from that very spot where Your Never can find you. Because if you do and they happen to wander back, you would die if they thought you'd abandoned them.

It's just that you already had to. You had to go against every bone in your body, every hair on your head, and every voice in your ear raging at you to hang on, to hold on, to bite down and never let go. But you had to.

Because fate is ever the puppeteer, pulling strings and putting words in your mouth. They taste so bitter but you convince yourself it's the medicine you need to function, instead of the poison that they are.

Everything is supposed to have a happy ending, you believe. That there will be answers and explanations and songs that convince you that youve found God and he is mighty and merciful and he loves you.

It's just that tidy knots don't happen when you run up on the abrupt end of love. It's all dead leaves and cold wind that yells half-assed reassurances that you're not the broken one, you aren't the failure and you WILL be happy... One day.

But you won't. Because you refuse to move for anything after that first wave crashes down on you. You'll just stand there, drowning in what ifs and broken promises, still in the same spot, planting roots, so that he can always find you if you'll let him.