Tears stream down my cheek. Not because I’m sad. Because waiting has become unbearable.

I crave you in the smallest ways. To take your face in my hands. To feel your lips with mine. To hear your breathing even out as you fall asleep. To know your morning routine and to hear you call my name across a room.

I don’t need grand romance or a life of adventure, though I know you’ll give me both of those. I just need your hand in mine when it’s hard. I need to feel it firm and hard. To know that you’re real. That will be enough.

Because as unbearable as it becomes, waiting for you is the best thing I’ve ever done.

an observation

You know, I’ve always loved people. The way they look. The air they breathe. The rising of a heavy chest. The twisting of an innocent curl. The dimpling of a cheek. The love of a broken heart.
And sometimes, I’ve hated people too. The minds full of darkness. The mouths full of lies.
The love and the hate, an obsession I cannot seem to break. To observe. To write. To love.
The lost and lonely. The found and full. The hopeless and the hopers. The daring and the depleted.
I wish to understand these wild creatures. The simple but complex star beams tethered to this earth by nothing more than a heartbeat.

It is not a sad thought to accept that I never will.
Purely, an observation on the wondrously, occasionally monstrous, diversity of human kind.

I’m not easy to love.
I’m a rollercoaster of emotions. I screw up all the time.
I say the wrong things. I wait too long or move too fast.
I’m stubborn.
I’ve been hurt before. My soul is still in repair.
I know I’m far from perfect. I know I’m not easy to love.

But, do it anyway.
What I receive, I give back tenfold.
In the way I kiss, or hold your hand.
With my words and action, I’ll always put you first.
I’m not easy to love, but I’ll give you my love easily.
Because the most damaged hearts never give in.
Because the hard to love, love hard.



It should scare me. After all I went through. 

To stand here on the docks again. 

The seas were rough before. That was all I knew. 

But watching the boat come closer to shore, my heart races at the thought of being with you. 

It should scare me to take that risk again. 

Even the thought was enough to send me running for the hills before I met you. 

But it doesn’t feel like a risk with you. Not a leap of faith. Or a dive into the unknown. 

It feels like coming home. 

Like seeing the world with you is the only future fate knew. 

That’s the thing though, isn’t it? 

You’d spend every day trying to change me even when we both know I’m perfectly happy being myself. 

Stick with me… 

And your name won’t end up in lights or splatted across a big screen. But you may find pieces of yourself in the characters of a novel. You may be the muse of poetry or the recipient of a letter you’ll never receive.
I can’t promise to write warmly. I won’t sing your praises if I see none. I write with an honest hand aware my view is jaded, one sided and entirely bias. But this is my art.
Stick with me knowing self expression will always come first, even before your heart.

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