And why does it feel like I’ve been set out to give my heart out to people who just wreck it?
I have never lost the enthusiasm in finding.
I heal the wounds and stitch the torn pieces and glue what has been shattered and I eventually pin it once more on the hemlines of my sleeve and let someone take it for their desire.
I love to fall in love. And God knows how far I’d go for the person whom I’d paint vivid pictures of the next 5 to 10 years of my life with.
That’s the bittersweet cliché however, for I have rarely pictured myself, my hopes and my dreams, my fears and my prayers with anybody but him–this boy whom I’ve never even met.
I can barely recall the last time I have cried over something so petty that I actually believed in it.
They say that the heart knows better than the mind, for it is the heart that sees through the soul and the soul through the perpetually erratic universe.
I have never even laid my eyes on you and yet, my heart is screaming for pain every time you refuse to acknowledge the calls of my soul through the space that floats between these palms that have yet to caress your tightly woven skin.
I believe in magic and I believe that you are who you are and that you’re the magic that I have been wishing for on shooting stars.
But the magic that has been casted upon us is so sinister I can only love you with heartbeats that only know how to yearn.
I yearn and yearn for you but I can only imagine if you’re yearning for me too.
I want to believe, believe in the colorful splashes of what we could be.
I want you to be a part of my future, of my present and of my future past. I want you to know that I have never felt this much ever since I fell in love with that man who told me that he liked me but can never really love me in return.
I have never imagined myself with anyone. I have never seen a soul alive that could live within the cloud of dreams that I have envisioned for my future self–you are the one.
You are the one!
For if you’re not then why do these tears flow like streams of broken things and unsung songs every time I imagine myself parting from the thoughts that I have painted for us.
You have to be it…
You must be.
For if these illusions are mere illusions for me to write on anonymous letters to people who barely know the pain of longing, of wanting someone exactly like you then, please take the pen away, I don’t want to write anymore.