It is not in me no longer the ability to disguise my words in metaphors.  It’s not that the way you make me feel waxes poetic because you are still capable of making me feel like I have risen above and beyond melancholy, or solitude.  Or whenever you pass me by, I don’t realize how much I want you to stay just a little bit longer, when your shoes skid on the cemented floor.

It’s just that when I try to hide, it will be sought eventually, as quick as counting to ten.  You are so different from everyone I have ever felt for, maybe because you and I have exchanged much more than names, than our favorite songs, than our favorite people.  Or maybe it’s the fact that I have let you in on so much more of myself than anyone ever knew.  I tread carefully as words start pouring out of my mouth endlessly like a flood for fear that you will know the greatest secret you were never told.

But on the other hand, it is just as difficult for me to struggle with the sense that I have to keep it all in, and the fear of you finally finding out and retreating back to a place where you never knew me at all.  You have kept my heart in your hands for a while now, and yet I have a fear that you will soon throw it to the farthest end of God-knows-where and laugh as I try in vain to retrieve it back.

Instead of giving me space to let you go, you give me reasons to hold on.  A hundredfold, a thousandfold? No. But just enough for me to wake up every morning to the sound of your voice in my head.


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