What Feels Like A Failed Series of Metaphors

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.