You. You and your selfish ways. But no, me: me and my selfish days. I can't go one of these days without hearing your voice. It soothes me and puts me to sleep, that voice. That same voice I hear when I read your messages that you rarely ever send. Yet when you do, I get this feeling inside my chest and my entire being to which can only be described as love. Possibly not. Possibly so. But I'd never tell you this, in fear of rejection that would turn into a reflection of what I feel inside: it will be ejected and shone onto your face. One that I only see through the screened face of another. A face, yours of course, not touched by my two hands, but those of another. Two hands of a lover that hasn't won you over. Two hands you wish were mine. Three, four, five, six; let's see how many hours you can go without hearing from me. It's become a game we play: one I constantly lose every time. It used to never be this way. You used to text first. You used to call first. You used to make time for me during the entirety of your day. You used to put forth effort. You used to take initiative. You used to do all of these things. You used to make me fall for you. Now that I'm down, on this hard ground, I need help being picked up. All these hands, from all these men, and yet, I seem to only want the hand of one. And that's you. You: an entire grade below me, yet: you-the one who exceeds me in age by 2 months. Your birthday, September 22nd, makes you a Virgo. You act innocent, like the Virgin sign you are, and I know your intentions are pure, yet I also know that you have a bad temper and issues controlling them. So when I sting with the tail of my Scorpion, ending with no N, the Scorpio, I, indeed, hurt your purity. Yet, you already have an edge to you. I think I fell for lots of things about you. The fact that I see both such purity and fire and the carefree way about you leads me to believe that there's something deeper: something that could be more. Yet, me, I don't know how to express any of this to you. I care, deeply, for you, but am I in love with you or simply the idea of you? Being that we have never physically touched, or embraced each other, basking in one another's prescence, leaves room for wonder. What do you smell like? What does your skin feel like? How do your eyes close when you laugh? These things I have not seen. Am I infatuated with the endless curiosity of these things that I have not experienced? Is it all worth the trouble? The other guys don't make me feel the same. I care for everyone, yet there's a soft spot in my heart for you. And you wonder why I keep coming back, after all the pain and nights I cried myself to sleep. Have you met yourself? Well, I haven't. But do I really want to? Do I want to continue whatever we have? Do I want us to finally be able to hold hands and express what we could one day call love? Do I want to end 'us' and let there be no more? I don't want to go backwards and end it, yet, I don't see us moving forward either. So what do I step on, when I'm stuck in this sticky, hard place? Water or the soft pillow? The water will relieve me from the stick, yet will hold no comfort. Then again, the soft pillow will be there for me to hold, yet will always be annoyingly stuck to me, binding and restricting me. What does one do when they see but two options? One makes room for another. And that's what I have to do. I may need to stay in this sticky, hard place for awhile until I figure out exactly what those options are. But until then, don't be selfish: text me back. 💚
