My whole life, I’ve struggled with expressing things that could make me pathetic. I keep it casual in person because it’s easier for everyone. I’m sociable, well-liked, but my connections are fleeting. Being vulnerable feels like a curse, for what if I’m revealed to be bothering others? Intimacy feels like a gamble I don’t want to lose – I could win big by admitting aloud how I feel, or I could look clingy and repulsive. Confessing someone makes my knees go weak makes me want to vomit. Months ago, I would’ve never told the faceless audience that I was suffering from unrequited love, the biggest cliche in anyone’s book.
If you only knew how much I want to be with you above anyone else I have ever known, all of the intuition I have about a soul like yours taking my breath away, if you only knew the way I still replay every moment and every word on that cold December night we shared together, the way I hold onto all the small moments when you’ve never made me feel I owe you anything, the way I am curious about every single meaningful project you’re involved in and want to hear it all, the way you listen to me with your entire heart and soul and ask me the questions no one else ever thinks about, the way you kissed me on the forehead so tenderly, the way I throw my phone across the room in terror of rejection after I summon the strength to tell you I appreciate you, the way you stroked my hair with your eyes shining like you’d never been so happy in god knows how long, the way I am inspired by your strength and perseverance from coming up out of nothing, the way my heart breaks when I see that you never forget to show gratitude despite going through hardship, the way I’m terrified I can’t read your expression when you seem to be nervous around me, the way you make me feel cared for in simply the energy you send my way that makes up for the silence, the way I cried with relief when it turned out this summer that you don’t think I’m crazy, the way I lay in bed lovesick when you ignore me like I’m not good enough, the way I quaked in my boots that you took me somewhere so nice that I could’ve only dreamed of being with you, the way I see you make sure to remember your humble roots in a world of conceit, the way I hear you in every song on the radio about the way love feels, the way I can remember what your laugh sounds like despite only having heard it once like an audio track stuck on repeat, the way even the smallest gesture or smile from you can make me completely melt with glee, the way that I picture holding hands or giggling or walking into a beach sunset and loving your beautiful heart – so rewarding and never a waste of time…. the way that even if you turned away from me forever and shattered my heart, that through that pain I’d still consider this feeling a privilege to hold through, the way I hope someone significant like you still could choose someone insignificant like me —
When I wake up in the morning after a late night of writing, I always send up a prayer of gratitude for all the other wordsmiths out there, that whatever art they’re stirring up today makes the world I live in that much more meaningful, and I also send up a prayer that they’ll do well and feel nurtured and satiated as they are now.
I hope that quill and the stories you write with that arm are making the best of where you are now. Because one day, months, years or even parallel universes from now, I plan on finding you in the streets of La La Land. I’m going to open my arms, throw you my biggest grin, and to your actual face shamelessly bellow a soliloquy I penned myself about how much of a shit the world should give about what you have to say freedom fighter or not. And then, maybe in this lifetime, maybe you’ll lead me in person down that street afterward to the sound of my urging you to never stop telling me your stories, the memories inked across your brain, forever and ever. And this is the wish I have, on the stars, that I’ll get to see you again through serendipitous means. And you’ll smile that dazzling grin on me again, and make my knees weak in the way I crave, and maybe just maybe, maybe you’ll kiss me the way you did on the street that night, like the best of any love song. Bet.