In an attempt to stop myself from the hurt, I stopped expecting. I knew at this time that you did not give me the words I wanted to hear this week, I told myself I would let go and just watch the event unfold, knowing that even if you weren’t there with me, the show must go on. But when I saw you in the sea of color, I knew that you surprised me again, just like I prayed you would when I wanted to do the same thing when your back was turned. I know it never meant anything to you at all, and I know it never does. But for a while there, I prayed and wished it meant as much as to me as it did to you, standing beside me with your regality and quiet confidence, as if we both held the world in our hands.
Is it bad to be the one who wants more? I know it’s tiring, and believe you me, it is. I know the feeling of waiting for something that’s never going to happen, and yet I still find myself craning my head to see if you were behind me, looking at me with those curious eyes and your smile cracking slowly. I knew that it would be most difficult to hold you in my head, and yet I did, with so much fervor and devotion. It’s another poor way of trying to tell you not to let me go, to give this a chance, and to know that although I think you’re out of my league, you could see that I am in yours?
But I shouldn’t expect, right? I should instead wait for you to leap up and surprise me, seeing you as you shine with all the sincerity and the handsomeness that no one knows more: yourself. You keep doing that, I guess, and on my part– I just have to wait and be surprised as you have done for me numerous times.
You have no idea how numb you make me, and you shake me constantly with everything about you. If ever you told me you felt the same way for me, I’d stand up straight and give you the salute you deserve, my hand held up and the tears of pride shining in my eyes: Sir, yes, sir.