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I am fond of writing anonymous love letters; not because I don't have someone to love, but because I don't have the courage to send them.
I probably have a thousand things to say to you that I've never said since the day we met. I don't know. I used to be thick-faced. Maybe because the butterflies I had in my stomach had died already, or maybe the waves had stopped hitting the shore in a manner we both liked. Maybe the glaciers refused to move or the snow failed to fall. I didn't know; there may be several reasons why I keep all these to myself.
But of course, I always come to the same conclusion: I didn't want to lose you. I didn't want to lose anything we have now. I could only care less about the butterflies who had short lifespans or waves that never last. I just wanted this piece of you I chose to keep to myself; my idea of you no one could ever take. Not even you. We weren't anything special, but I am happy. I am very, very happy with whatever you could give at the moment and I'll never get tired of spreading my arms wide just to accept anything that came from you.
And because I have all the time and patience in the world, I'd just be here, waiting.
Just here.
Writing anonymous love letters.
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