I live to write, and all I want and can write about now is YOU. I used to think and still do, that I lived for and to love. But now all I can bring myself to write about is how I want you. The thing is I don’t hate me for doing that!
I just wish, I wish you could see how the rebel in me has partnered with my love for you and hope that one day you’ll be mine. I wish you could see that all I can write about, all I want to write about, all I wish for, and all I desire is YOU.
But you don’t and you won’t any time SOON. So I continue to write and dream about and for you.
For writing comes from dreams you know, from dreams of the soul. Guess all my soul dreams of is YOU.
So baby I’ll just add this post to many more, in that folder hidden away. So many posts all about you, all about you. It’s like I’m infected with your love. But that will be the sweetest, most beautiful virus ever. Love of any kind is but Darling this love is yours, so it’s extra lovely, extra sweet, and I’m extra lonely tonight.
For when the night grows quite and it’s near it’s end, your memory floats to the surface of my thoughts and hopes. I used to let those out on paper but since I became sick with your love. All that comes out on paper is YOU.
Usually near the end I make a little prayer, logic says I pray for your love to let me be free, but my heart forces me to pray, that prayer I have been praying for for so long. I pray for YOU.
I pray that one day you’ll come to me, that one day you’ll finally see, that all I write about is YOU.
The thing is I don’t regret falling in and out of love the way I do. I take comfort in knowing that I am out there looking for my prince not sewing scarves somewhere waiting and dreading what might and could be and have been.
Sometimes I regret putting it all out like that, telling you as simple as that. But to me it is simple always was and always will. You love him you get your ass out there and tell him already. Simple right? Yes but dreadful consequences. But then if I don’t my stars will go blue. I can’t live with that.
Funny how love is, who comes to you, you don’t want and who you want never comes. But then I have my hands on a keyboard. I write, I write when they come and when they don’t. I write. I write anyway.
Tonight about you, tomorrow about another, the day after about someone completely different. I write it anyway and I write it all. At that and this moment it’s just all I know to write about.