When I’m too tired to type and staring at my hands as they rest, fingers sprawled on the keyboard, once a childish softness, now slender grace of some near twenty-four year old, who plays stringed instruments so strongly, and without a pick, that the nail bed is bruised and the nails on the left hand are just a step from imperceptibly shorter than the ones on the right;
When I’m too tired to think and so I focus on the world immediately before me, and the piles of clothes littered on chairs and in laundry baskets and on closet doors and on top of books;
When I’m so tired that I’ve gotten all ready for bed and still don’t want to sleep…
It’s because of you.
Because I stayed awake too late, my mind racing too late, my thoughts wandering too late, wide awake and dreaming too late, about you.
The You I have never met, the You I keep hoping for, the You of my dreams and the memories and wishes and thoughts and everything that has been tossed together by my stupid heart that I wish was true, and isn’t yet.
Just waiting again. So tired, so missing, so hoping and thinking and wishing and never having, and maybe…
Until then I must stop wrapping my mind and my hopes and dreams in broken tales of hearts meeting and love growing, because all I’ve met are eyes that don’t want to meet mine and those that never matched in the first place.