Saturday, January 14, 2017

being the rule feels like

Your bait remains untouched and I may never even be brave enough to walk onto that field.

I feel a tumbling rush of blood to my head when our gazes meet. Everything is blooming when I live in the smile in your eyes like flowers in that park we first try to fly.

But perhaps the smile is for everyone, not just me.

Our voices dance together in the stream, words flowing effortlessly, pushing back and forth. The smallest things become a trigger for a thousand lyrical images and your words flood my mind.

But maybe I am just a drop of water to you.

Your arms wrap around my shoulder, let me lean on you and create a temporary home. I want to stay there forever.

But I worry that I am simply a guest in your caress, nothing more than a visitor.

I am a wanderer who has been lost for miles. Only hope can keep me going. I remain hopeful that the path will reveal itself, that the forest will clear, and the rocks will vanish.

But I am afraid that you are in fact in the desert, and I have been following the wrong path all along.

The brave thing to do would be to tell you all of these things. 

All I can do is hoping that I no longer be the rule, but the exception.

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