I hand you chances every morning to start again, to hit refresh and come quietly back into my life. I give you chances every single morning to come back to me. But what do you do? You squander all of them, letting my patience waste away into the night and die with the starlight. Recklessly, foolishly, you continue to drift just out of arm’s reach. I can’t tell what you want from me. Am I supposed to wait for you to make up your mind? Is that what you want? Because you know I will. You know damn well that I’ll wait for you until the moon falls to the fucking Earth and lands in my hands. And yet you refuse my chances. You want me…I know you do, but not quite enough to come back. Not enough to come home.