I’ve been teasing you with cloudy tidbits about the past and the future, embedded in my cryptic speech and my tendency to say everything except what you want: cold, hard facts about us; painted in glossy, white letters against a matte, black surface. Because then you’d know, without a doubt, that my head was in the game. They would be there: words. As if strung into the air by a wave of purple, shimmering light: words to the thoughts of this … strange girl.
I’ve been ready, waiting, watching the words fall into place, one by one, trying not to lose my mind because where are the priorities, after all, in a brain that manages the perfect adjective for the electrician, but fails to conjure up anything beyond a measly pronoun for the consuming thought that’s hasn’t left since it took to nesting a few weeks back? And I’m finally at the point where I’ll just take my brain in whatever capacity and do what I can because sometimes… sometimes when you kiss me, I want to cry because it hurts how perfect it feels, and every time I look in your eyes, I want to run a little faster to what we might be, and even though I know that means that if I trip, it will hurt more when I fall, I’m still running. I’ll keep running till you say stop.