Sometimes I talk about things that even I don't care about.
I fill up every spare second, every single square inch of silence, with words and sentences and questions and ideas and things that I hope will make you laugh.
I can't stop myself.
I keep talking and talking because I think that maybe if my mouth is constantly busy and I keep myself moving, that my insides won't have time to jump out of me, and you won't ever know the truth:
That I'm scared of everything.
That I love you so much it seems unfair that I ever told anyone before you that I loved them at all.
That I'm afraid you will leave.
That I don't know how to look at your face or kiss your lips or sleep beside you without screaming my love for you, right in your face, and every second I spend not doing that is another second I spend thinking my body might turn inside out and I won't know ho to explain it to you.
So I just keep talking.
And none of it matters,
And most of it makes no sense,
But it's all my own fumbling way of letting you know
I love you to bits
And little tiny pieces too.