I've written so much to you. A lot of words you'll never see. You might never "see" these words, either.
Are you afraid of people? You say you're lonely.. why do you keep so hidden?
I can't shake this idea that you're bad for me. Yet I still want you. Better judgement says I want you more than you want me.
And why? You philosophize, yet you have no practice. You understand duality intellectually, yet the real exquisite terror of science is that when it looks in the mirror, it sees poetry.
The paradox of this is that any (assuredly volatile to some degree) partnership between us could still possibly be hi-functioning and mutually beneficial.
But nobody, Nobody, can make another person want something they don't.
Do I write this more for myself, than for you? Maybe. It doesn't matter.
Either way my skin demands to be articulated. My path, my pretext, conceived.
I do and do not struggle to hear all my raw desire in the wake of you. Desire that is not judgement. Desire that is not expectation.
Desire for warmth. True intimacy.
A pact of non-aggression is still a call to action.
Sometimes, a woman is encouraged to be a thing without a past. I certainly do not intend to give my legacy away.
I am the best writer I can be right now- as a feature of my will and the sum of my parts.
My own loneliness and sadness, interlaced the twine of a few bad decisions, are not regretted.
Their edges have been explored much much more than once.
Still more, they've been found expertly fathomed. My eyes see more clearly after tears have washed them.
The "you" I speak to is the great elusive love. The soul mate in the traditional sense- lovely, strong, and in the male form.
It would be arrogant to say "I am ready for you". I am only truly prepared to say "I am worth loving, and so are you."
So, are you?
I'll keep calling out into the dark, knowing you will come.