Good Days and Bad.

There are days that I hate her.

I wake up with a dull pain in my chest and an inscrutable frustration that lingers as I get dressed. My mind gradually catches up with my subconscious and pieces together the clues left behind from restless slumber. I had dreamed of her again. All of my resolve and supposed progress are undone by it; how many times has it been now? I silently curse. The professor drones on, and I think of lies and indecision and indifference. I get angry and hate myself more for ever being so vulnerable.

There are days that I love her.

I remember her laugh. It was a deep laugh, and she threw her head back as if the laughter had permeated her entire body before escaping. Before I even knew her or was attracted to her, I knew her laugh. And gradually, as I heard it over and over, became familiar with it, learned how to call it out, it became my laugh as well. We shared it, imperfectly at first as friends, and then more perfectly as partners, finally as lovers.

These are the bad days.

The good days... are the days where I don't remember.