Sir,
I read that not too long ago — something along the lines: “how do you recognize the one who’s in love? — it’s the one who waits.”
Hello, that’s me — the one who waits.
For you, mostly. For others, sometimes. Not for him, not anymore. For you, almost always. For you, today. For you, tomorrow too.
And likely the day after — and every day after it.
You — the illusion of you. The one carefully crafted in my mind. Bits and pieces — with a golden lining. Polished, shiny. Perfect — perfectly imperfect. You — for me. Not you, you. Mine — a version.
Honey eyes, burning hands. Echoing laughter, dancing fingers. Naughty, rough. Charming, mellow. Picnics in the park. Leather bonds over me. Wine, love.
You — all you could be, all you cannot be. Mine. Me? Yours — anytime. Late night, early morning. Today, tomorrow, the following days, months — seasons. Yesterday, the preceding days, months — winter. Spring? Fleeting absence, life.
Thirsty, hungry — waiting — for you. Patiently?