So I sit here and stare at a blank page. Hoping to find the words to fill it, desperately and anxiously awaiting a thought, any. But all I can I think about is your face when we first met and the way that you winked when no one was looking, as a sign of approval and satisfaction. I write now not to express the love that grew within me, but rather the love that was drawn out of me. Hoping to find a word, a phrase, to define the hurt that lathered in me when “wrong timing” was the only explanation you could give me.
I wonder what you will tell them when they ask who I am. What memory you’ll undust out of the archives or if you will mutter “she’s just a family friend”. If I were to label you, my designation would differ tremendously, I would bet. I would start by explaining how I wanted you to stay. How every holiday I ever hated, I held on to the hopes that you would show up in some Hallmark way.
We are so distinctively different, Charlie Chapman in a silent film and a radio that plays on repeat. But opposites did not attract here, opposites made us deal with being at opposite ends of the world, differently. And so I wait, starting at this blank page, just hoping, that you’re not on a different chapter.
In a Dalliance 