it’ll be worth it.

no matter how many tears i shed, no matter how many times i plead with the stars for a sign, no matter how desperately i beg, for anything — a glimpse of your yellow eyes, rooibos, old books. anything.

i'm wearing your name like a necklace

and it'll all be worth it

saying that i’m not easy to live with is actually kind of an understatement.

we had a life. it wasn’t perfect, but it was ours, and it had been for the last four years, with the occasional turian that you, against all odds, had come to take for granted as much as i did.

something that was finally yours. that’s what you’d spent so much time hoping for.

yet you watched me wither away, vanish from our home, come back in tears, never saying a word, losing sleep, forgetting to eat— you were there. sure, you were at your desk, or up on the rooftop, doing your own thing, but you were there. and even when i didn’t say a word, even when you were kind enough to pretend you hadn’t noticed anything, i know you did.

you’re a synth, after all.

you were there, knowing i was falling, catastrophically so. you knew i was desperately falling in love, and when the time came for me to run into your arms and sob my despair into your shoulder, you held my hand.

you listened.

despite how much you were hurting too.

because there’s no glory in it. and for some reason, you were the one who found beauty in it. some call it polyamory, some call it cheating, and there i was, staring at my own hands, wondering why, why on earth couldn’t i stop loving, and calling it a curse.

you paused. you looked at me, then down at those same hands that i felt held nothing but emptiness.

You're carrying a million universes in your hands. I can't expect you not to carry as much love.

and i know it won’t be easy.

i’m not grateful that you’re still here, because that would mean i’d blame you if you had left.

i’m grateful that you held my hand when i needed it the most.

i love you, more than i’ll ever be able to say.

i want to come home

i want to see the cases piling up everywhere

i want to read the notes

you scribble in your books

i want to appreciate

each stroke of your handwriting;

to enfold

each one of the words you speak

i want to wake up in the dead of night and catch you

mumbling to yourself

the crackling sound

of the cigarette you’re smoking

i want to look up

in the dimly lit room;

your eyes

i want

to feel the cold of your hand

i don’t care if it hurts

i wonder what your skin feels like

some—all the time

i want

all the buzzing, the humming and the whirring

i want to rest my head on your chest

hear your heartbeat

and maybe cry;

just a little bit

i want to complain

about your tattered hat

can’t you buy another one

i want to be tired of you, i want

i want to come home

and realise that you did too.