I spend so much time waiting. Waiting for you to call me. Or text me. Waiting to gather the courage to ask the question that's been on my mind for days. Waiting for the right moment. Waiting for something to happen. Anything, really, but something. I feel myself getting old as the minutes go by. I feel myself running out of time. To love you. To be myself. It'll all be over, soon. The memories will remain. And the longing. And the ashes of what we could have been. Because everything burns, right? Even you and I.