Every day seems the same.

It’s the new age kind of love.

Working for ourselves and looking down on the one who is losing the race of success.

Together but separate.

It’s an anxious kind of love.

Messy and unkempt like an old oak tree.

Each branch reaching for the light,

But it gets lost in the growth and loses direction.

When we are together, I forget I’m growing.

It feels like we just place holders until we admit that we are too different.

It’s harder to be alone than to be with someone who fills the void.

So we wait.

Until we finally admit that our time is up,

And it is time to unpause our stories.