There’s no changing your mind about whom you love. That’s part of the tough thing about being in love – it’s sort of undeniable.
– Piper Perabo
It is undeniable. The feelings buried within me can not be forgotten. The more I try to distance myself from you the harder it is to let go – the more I am tethered to you. The smell of hazelnut teases my nose, fingers dance across the keyboard as I spill my soul to you in writing. The one way we will always connect.
Still I fear the words I write and those you read will be different. I fear that misunderstanding will always wedge itself between us. I fear that something will always keep us apart.
Is it pain that I feel nuzzling itself deep within my chest? No, not pain. Longing. Longing to make things right. Longing to feel your warm arms pulling me close. Longing to complete the unfinished story. The story that the words will not let me forget.
A soft chuckle rises from my throat as a memory caresses my mind. Its sound is like a breath of fresh air in the silence of the stuffy room. The tension slowly releases from my spine and I begin to relax. The words are pouring faster now, like a dam bursting. Every dream, every wish, every hope for our future cascades from my fingertips and onto the screen – filling the empty spaces until all that is left are words.
Then I stop. What more is left to say that has not already been said? My finger floats above the delete key waiting to erase the evidence of my longing heart. What good is it to spill your soul when the words will be disregarded? What good is it to hand over the power and leave myself vulnerable?
I hear this is nothing more than a game. It is nothing more than a chess match between two opponents that have hidden agendas. I hear that you must keep your game face on or you will never see victory.
But this is not me. I am not the strategist. I am not here to conquer or control. I am the artist, the lover, the dreamer whose only wish is to love and be loved. Is that so wrong?
So I do the only thing I can do. I bury my words in the archives of my computer, waiting for the day I have the courage to hit send. Waiting for the day our story can be continued.
*Once again, these words are my own and any attempt to use my words without my permission is prohibited.*