In love I'm needy. I want morning sex, alone time, gone with the wind adventures, security....when I am in love I need. In lust we want, everybody wants. Conflicting thoughts of apologizing for the way I need swing depending on the me I am throughout the day. Be dangerously aware of the voices in your heart. Day, night, sober, high....Feel them. Use it. We spend so much time shoving the need so far down we're in a cold war silently bleeding from the very real tugs, waking with bruises we have no idea how they hurt to the touch.
My mind wants one thing while my heart bangs for another. Knowing is half the battle. So here it is, truths bitter laced possibility.
The letter I'll never send will show you who I really am. I fell in
love with you in an instant, standing on a street corner somewhere lost
in your hands, your touch, my thoughts and your ease.
I
don't want to let go. I don't want to let be. So here's the letter I'll
never send because I'm terrified it was everything it was suppose to be,
flooded with everything it wasn't.
I don't know why we're
all so afraid of love. We spend so much time trying to perfect it, not
giving a second glance to anyone who hasn't let us in completely when
we're still evolving. The letter I'll never send would say I want to
evolve beside you.
I'll write this letter because I
don't know what to say. I don't know how to be someone you'll think of
at 4am when you can't sleep or you'll miss while letting the music play.
I must get this out of my head as it quakes my soul. So I lay here writing this letter I'll never
send quietly screaming while you're not listening. The need or want irrelevant, it simply just is another indescribable trying to run off my fingertips. Slow, fast, minutes, days, miles apart, all under your skin.
I'll
end this letter I'll never send as a hopeless romantic ready to let love all the way in.
I've always liked to write. Like all 80s babies I have a shoebox filled with notes thrown between classrooms, slide through those vents in our lockers, stuck to windshields or brush crossed thieved. I'd have more, but I've moved. A lot. I have kept a diary since I can remember and started blogging when blogging was....what?
I once had a girlfriend tell me not to let the man of the moment see me any way other than happy. There's such sadness in this. Do we really spend so much energy masking who we are, parading around with falsities and red pens editing what we feel, how we think, where are minds wander so much hanging by a script provoked by the gloved unknown. A magical inked future oscar winner in the making, or so we hope, just so we can stand in a faceless room giving thanks to the believers, slowing letting our souls vanish.
None of it matters. Many wise man before me have said in some way, we are all yearning to love and be loved. We can't be loved if we aren't ever up for the award.
Shouldn't they see all of you, feel all of you, be given the inside scoop before the debut. We've gotten so good at shelling out advice and taking it, we've forgotten what the question was and who we should be asking. If you knew the truth, would you believe it.
Writing has never been about the reader, it's a time for me to communicate in a vulnerability I have until recently been unable to fathom out loud.
I'd rather send a letter or drop a card, than send a text or have a facetime date. I have been dubbed the worst texter ever by those who I do truly care about. Even on my best days I won't hear your call. I'm a work in progress taking baby steps towards an open field covered in all my favorite aromas.
It's such a gift to let things organically grow. We may know of another for years before we find ourselves squinting to get a glimpse of who they truly are. Even then we continue to discover their soulful beauty.
A friend recently sent me a novel. Well, almost. It was an openness, an unveiling, of a part of them I had yet to see. Not the seen that our eyes capture, but one visioned with the heart.
What a gift it was to see. One in the listening so closely a response takes lifetimes. Give yourself to someone. They will travel with you. They don't need to understand your journey, but if they're present for the ride let them see the magic.
Every now and again send a note of mad love. Open a journal or hell your day planner and just let your hand flow. Be alone with your uncoordinated thoughts. When you write with the heart, it doesn't come with a spell check or care if you've offended AP stylists. Don't edit yourself to sooth others.
Be needy. How glorious it must be to reach out and be comforted by those whom you need.
