I write for you. To you. To get ready for you.
You know.
So when that moment comes- yes, that moment- and you finally walk into view, I’ll be prepared. So I won’t be standing there with a dumb grin on my face and no words to say.
I hate being speechless. But you know that.
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I write for you.
Sonnets. Stories. My thoughts are novellas that start and finish in an instant and linger past eternity.
They are endless. Pages and pages in my head.
I never worry about editing. The words are right. I make sure the first time.
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We are in Paris sometimes. Always at night, because it is romantic how the evening breeze makes your cheeks flush pink.
Other times we are somewhere in the countryside. Lost. Alone. On purpose, of course.
Or in Times Square, just so everything could blur around us in fast motion as our gazes lock.
Or Venice, even though you think gondola rides are cheesy.
The coffee shop down the street from your old apartment.
Central Park in autumn.
Home.
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We read together in the afternoon. Your head is on my chest and your feet dangle off the end of the couch, dancing as you turn the pages.
Audrey Hepburn plays guitar in the background. I hear you hum along because of course you would, and life is perfect.
Two drifters off to see the world.
It’s raining outside. We don’t mind.
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You try to cook for me once. You saw Giada make it the other day. She said it’d be easy.
It tastes terrible.
You make a face. I smile.
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I make it a point to learn all your quirks.
I remember that one time when you told me how you hate how you look when you are flustered and how you get frustrated because you are a klutz and you can’t help it when you trip sometimes.
I notice on my own the face you make every time your hair gets in your eyes.
How you are way too into bands that make no sense. And Red Vines.
They are my favorite things about you.
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You laugh softly, delightedly- the sweetest sound- as we glide around the living room, or on the sidewalk outside like they do in movies, because you had no idea I am good at this.
We keep dancing after the music stops.
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I open doors for you. Give you my coat. Pay for dinner.
You let me.
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We go stargazing on a whim because you like it when I surprise you. I never knew I had it in me. I guess I like surprises too.
I bring two chairs outside but you sit on my lap so we can share the blanket. I quote movie lines and you play along and when I tell you I’ll lasso the moon for you I’m only half joking.
You deserve more, anyway.
My thumb traces circles on your back.
-
We talk. Argue. A lot. Sometimes, I even win, and not because you let me. I think.
A man can dream, right?
I say something wrong two minutes later and we are at it again.
I can’t help it- there is just something about that fire in your eyes.
The slightest of smiles betrays you.
You call me an idiot. Tell me I used a thousand words when I only needed to use three.
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You kiss me good morning.
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We know each other, I realize one day as I watch you nap. I wake you up simply to tell you I had no idea how comforting that feeling is- the one I get when things are right.
You and me are you and me.
You give me a sleepy smile because somehow you know that it is exactly what I need.
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At night I whisper in your ear and make you fall head over heels all over again.
You think I am amazing.
I don’t tell you that I know these words by heart. I practiced.
-
That is what now is for, I imagine.
Practice. For the real thing. For forever.
So I write for you. To get ready.
Nothing is scripted, not yet- that space is saved for all the adventures we will have, together, someday.
But I write to make sure these thoughts won’t get away. So you won’t get away.
I write for you.
-
Still…
I get the feeling that one day we will meet
and all I will be able to do is smile.
I hate being speechless. But you know that.
Because you are everything I knew you would be.
And you are writing for me, too.
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Now playing: The Beatles – Something
via FoxyTunes
