Notes From A Lover
Sometimes I write about you. I take it as a writing exercise because at least it makes me open up a blank page and type but mostly it’s because you’re the only one in my mind. I often find myself occupied with thoughts of success or you but mostly just you. You see, when you ask me if I’m successful or not and I weigh that against how happy I am at this time in my life, I feel that I am successful and it’s needless to say, that you are my success. Sometimes I cannot fathom how deeply I love you. I can look at you infinite times and still appreciate the tiny details on your face and wonder how someone can be so beautiful. What’s more amazing is that you don’t see it and perhaps I’m glad that I am the only one who knows these little secrets about you that you don’t know yourself. Every time I go out anywhere, I think of what to get you, what would make you feel special, sometimes my wallet doesn’t allow me, other times my mind reminds me that maybe I buy you too much, I should wait. How can someone so valuable ever be given things that have enough value?
You are what makes me excited, anxious and nervous in life. You have the ability to make me feel and feel a lot and all at once. One moment I can feel a fountain of joy bursting inside me and in another moment I can feel the tallest mountains crushing down. You give me the highs and the lows. There is no median. And I love that. I love the pain, the tears, the heart ache and the extreme sadness I sometimes feel. It reminds me that I have someone to cry over, someone who can bring me to the edge. I like being on the edge and you keep me to my toes. Sometimes you tilt me a bit, over the heights, where I can see the entire view from, of the deep scary world beneath me. You know I’m scared of heights. But I feel the tug behind my shirt, holding me and I know I am within your grasp, you won’t let me fall. Yet.
Sometimes I write about you. Sometimes you’re all I write about. Sometimes I wonder if the words you spill ever contain me, ever contain a bit of my personality. I wonder what you write about me. I guess I’m afraid to ask, to know and to compare our pieces of writings. One is full of love and the other might be full of fear.