I am writing a soliloquy. A soliloquy about my endeavors in your eyes, a monologue about my hands running in the waves you call hair. I am writing a soliloquy to let you know that my feet have no callouses and my hands have no cuts but I am still fighting.
I am writing a monologue to remind you that there is a chance there is a God, and I am very sure he created you with me in mind.
I am writing to tell you that I love you, inexplicably so. I want to remind you of my travels down your neck to your collarbone, to remind you of my trips down your spine, to remind you of my journeys around your head.
I am writing about your hair and I am thinking of how you would softly pull my curls whenever you craved affection; how you would stare at me with the gentlest hands.
I am writing a soliloquy while reminiscing of my trails down your arms into the palm of your hand, of my tour through your fingertips.
My trails through a perplexing and disconcerting face that you thought to call yours when we both know it truly belonged to me.
I am thinking of a monologue and I am reminded of your subtle words and how I could never possibly replicate them if I were to sit by a pen for centuries; how, even if I were to study the stars for my entire life, I would never be able to compare to the small hints of gold in your eyes.
I wrote a soliloquy about you, an abstract description of you, and yet the most peculiar thing happens.
You do not appear to care at all.
