Even though I love you, maybe in some subtle way unbeknownst to me at this time and I keep asking my own heart about that. Still, so sure of receiving no answers, like a dead phone ringing in a dusty room. Even though I really love you, somehow, sometime, somewhere. When?

What’s it like for you, and for all the others who are similar to you, though you all differ, except for me. I am the combining factor, the rose that draws the rain. There’s an old photograph somewhere, dad took it when I was 4, I think. Sun shining, close up of my slim childish neck and shoulders. Bright bluish eyes. And a butterfly in my hair.

They all come when I sing, when I call their names. And now that I hold yours as well, won’t you come when I call? But you are an independent spirit, a vicious child of laughter. Maybe I thought this was immaturity, but rather, you stand your ground. A path I believe in.

And I know it so well. Every time I dance like dying is the only and first most matter, you crawl out of your cracks, come forth from your hideouts, turn up in the light, approach me gently, and break my chains. Who has ever been close enough to hold on to me, to stay steady and endure the passing storm?

You, as in the single form, are not to be abused and rendered useless. I have learnt this, I have come to understand. As I have been shaped by the harsh weather isolating me in my chaos of heart, I have been shaped to listen to the voices begging at the entrance to my soul. Whispering, always pleading carefully. Walking beside me and never letting me go, but not latching onto.

Even though I love you…this winter has been so cold. I’ve been still all down to my roots, seeking nothing but starlight. You’ve come, entered the stage, left again. Repeat and rinse. I learn so quickly again, learn to adjust to what’s given, and not intrude. To wait until you will love me.

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