I wake up. I check the time. 2:58 a.m., the alarm glares back at me. I am in an uneasy limbo of restlessness and unconceivable tiredness. I spend most my nights like this, hoping that maybe he'll text back. Hoping that he too, can't help but to think about love, and how innocent it is. Hoping that maybe if I think hard enough, I'll be lucky enough to drift into sleep, just to wake up again and continue the endless cycle. The autonomous, machine-like cycle of life. But I love the thrill of it. I think about how everything could change, if only he'd be mine and I'd be his. Oh, how would life change, no longer a cycle stuck on replay like a scratched record. Everyday would be a memory, every hour an adventure, every minute a lifetime. I'd get lost in his eyes and I wouldn't be looking for a way out, I'd be finding myself going deeper and deeper into the center of the labyrinth of love's allure. Life would have meaning, and the definition would read: spending every second with him. I so intensely crave the feeling of our hands touching, of his embrace, of our lips meeting each other for the first time. The most innocent parts of a relationship are what I want. And now I only wish, that it's what he wants too.
