In The Wind

Call me when you get over yourself.

Cause I still won't be over you yet, and I'll wanna talk about it.

I don't want to seem presumptuous. I know you hate it when I try to finish your sentences.
I get them right about 80% of the time, but the other 20% is proof enough for you that I cannot read your mind, at least not yet, and I know it upsets you when I try, so I don't want to seem like I'm condescending or telling you what you really mean.

How can I convince you that I like you? I'm not doing it to elicit a response from you. I can't control your feelings and I wouldn't want to besides. But I want to convince you so, so badly that I think you're great. I guess I ought to take up painting or learn to play the guitar and write a really beautiful ballad. That wouldn't even work though. It's like I'm the tourist and you're the castle and you're also person in the ticket booth, charging admission and staring skeptically at my Student ID.

You caught me: it's out of date. I wanted a deal. I wanted the easy way into you. And I'm sorry if I seemed sneaky it seemed like a victimless crime. But now I'd pay the full-fare and I'd even scale the walls if you'd just let me in for long enough to convince you how wonderful you are. That you are to be shared and celebrated and photographed for free. That you don't have to charge admission to be certain that we (the world, potential lovers, your friends and family, even people like us who you may not know so well) are dying to come to and see and know you. You're someone's favorite person in the whole world. Probably more than a few people would say this about you, and the crazy part is that a good percentage of the people who claim you, yourself as their personal favorite? You don't even know them yet.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Beautiful. I love your writing.