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Hazy.

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I hate the cryptic way your sentences swirl together when you’re under the influence. They fall out of your mouth and into some language foreign to me: one made up of one-word-replies and half-hearted answers. Like your mind - and maybe your heart is lost in the haze.
Now, not to say I don’t enjoy the silly joke and light conversations: It’s the haziness, the sense that you aren’t all there that bothers me. It’s the moments where I catch you staring of in space, or just breathing on the phone, the moments when you reply carelessly to things I’ve said that bother me. They make me wonder if the haze has taken the part of you that loves me with it, taken it and let it float off into the wind somewhere until your head is clear. Its those moments that scare me, paralyze me.
I think ‘What if it never comes back?’
I think ‘What if it was never there in the first place?’
I think ‘What if I’m just making myself crazy.’
Truthfully, I never know what to think.



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