For you. I write for you; all the posts, all the poems, even when it’s not about you, I still write for you. Because whenever you’re around words fail me, and I can no longer speak my mind. Because I have speeches as long as the Mississippi River in my head, thoroughly trained on, and […]
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The Girl Who Waited

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For you.

I write for you; all the posts, all the poems, even when it’s not about you, I still write for you.

Because whenever you’re around words fail me, and I can no longer speak my mind. Because I have speeches as long as the Mississippi River in my head, thoroughly trained on, and waiting to come out. Because everything I do, I do for you.

Sometimes I write to you hoping you’ll get my letters with the passing wind, or that maybe, one day, you’ll feel all my unspoken words on my lips, on the tip of my searching tongue. In my silence I have told you endless times how much I love you, how grateful I was to the force that brought us together, to that moment when my judgment got clouded and I agreed to go out with you despite the alarming flashes.

I still try not to feel safe in your arms because I don’t know how I would be able to drive away from you, because I know I eventually will, but sometimes your heartbeat is the only thing that can calm me down and your skin is the only thing that can thaw all my cold, even when I’m laying by your side, naked body, naked soul, and naked heart. You tell me everything you love about me, even the things that you like and nobody else does, with all the gleam in your eyes, and I still can’t get myself to tell you how I truly feel.

I don’t know how I’m going to be able to drive away from you, and I know we will part ways, when we’re done with each other, when my voice is no longer enough to sooth your pain, when the dawn cracks and we go back to the cruel world we live in, when we have to go out of our shell and face reality.

I waited for you so long, that years felt like centuries, and I got old, wrecked heart, and dying soul. Your heart, your touch revitalized my aching bones, my wrinkled smile.

I will keep writing for you, to you, about you, hoping you’ll get my letters with the passing wind, until the wind no longer feels like a breeze and you close the windows of your heart.

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