On and On and On the days go...

I think I've had enough.

Enough of the way you don't love me sometimes, enough of the way you expect too much of me, the way you take everything about me for granted, the way you take and take and take in general.  Enough of the way you only hear half of what I'm saying, if I'm lucky, and only care to respond to half that.  Enough of how everything about you is important, and everything about me is irrelevant.  Enough of how you see me, who you think I am, who you choose to be.

Enough of the loneliness that comes with being your best friend, of the weight that comes from being in love with you, of the way the oxygen sucks itself from the room when you are angry, the way the silence swallows the house when you are sad, the way the everything tiptoes when you are on the verge, the way the world begs for you to love it, the way your life falls all over itself to be easy, every mistake answered with a blessing, every crisis diverted by a miracle.


Enough, that's how much I've had.

And then, that's what there never is.

Enough.