Sometimes, you think you know what you can give someone. You think that your words will have this healing power, that you will be able to give them what they’ve searched for for years. You can list all the ways you’d touch them, caress them, savour them in a hurried breath. You know exactly what you would do to make them happy, because that’s all you really want to do, make them happy. But sometimes, probing words and truthful sentences hurt more than they heal. Sometimes, exposing their wounds to the world and offering to do the stitches for them is more embarrassing than loving. I’m sorry. This was wrong. I have only ever wanted you to be happy. I will keep wanting you to be happy.
(A post was here, and now it is not.)