Yes, being away from him made me furious.  Furious I couldn’t hold his hand or kiss him; furious I couldn’t make him laugh or sing him to sleep.  I wanted to throw miscellaneous objects at my bedroom walls from the irritation.  I wanted to cry and be angry, to take out my pent up frustrations on something, anything, to get it out of me.

And all I had were my fucking pen and paper to try to explain how I felt.  To try to convey such a feeling within my simple writing would be futile.  There was never truly an escape for me, not in my guitar or my books or my tv shows at 2AM when I couldn’t sleep because the bed was too empty and his scent was too present and his shadow of a memory too clear.

Yes, being away from him made me furious.  Furious because with my wishing for his happiness I was oftentimes condemning my own.  Furious that I never minded, that his smile was the only form of happiness I really wanted. 

All I could do was silently reprimand myself for being that way, still deep down knowing I was the luckiest girl in the world to be held in his gaze, his arms, his love.  Because no one really knows what to do in love anyway.  Because besides being furious and restless with myself and with him, it all went away the moment he returned home.  

And all I had were butterflies.