Contemplating life at twelve, or nought, in the morning, is such an odd position. I'd give anything to be sleeping in your arms, right now, but I'm not. I'm keeping vigil with the beautiful moon.

Sometimes I think that I love you more than I can cope with. I mean, no, I don't mean that. I can't sleep thinking you're sad. And I know, when I wake up, and you wake up, things will be alright again, because there is no other way to be.

There's nothing else I can say in the way of belief; everything else I believed in forsook me before. But I can apologise. I'm sorry, there, for getting so bad. I just, I- I miss you. And it's so hard to believe that you miss me too, but that's not your fault, and nor am I doubting you, but I completely believed for the longest time that I was unlovable.

And I'm sorry, so sorry, for being so difficult, and crying. Believe me, I love you. I can tell you're getting annoyed with having to tell me you love me all the time, but it's fine. It's okay. I just need to be told, doesn't mean you have to tell me.

The moon is staring at me. Maybe if I curl up tight enough, I'll stop breathing. But, no. That's rediculous, I don't want to die. I just want to sleep, sleep next to you, with you, anything. I love your heartbeat.

I can't wait until Sunday, I really can't. I love you. Please don't hate me. I love you.