Occasionally I miss him. One. Or more so, I miss who I was with him. Feisty. Full of optimism and energy and enthusiasm. Cynicism does not look good on me. Flushes out my skin tone and makes me look fat. Does growing up mean becoming impassive and detached? Or have I just been broken too many times? I want to feel butterflies again. I want to be too nauseous to eat. Every muscle, every nerve, every tendon, bone, and ligament, I want them to pulsate out of rhythym with one another and make my fingers vibrate and my voice quiver. I want to hear the blood pounding in my ears and feel my heart thrashing against my ribcage again. I want love to have a feeling, not just a definitition. 

Am I broken?

Impatient