Girl, You So Well Spoken!

Where do I begin?

It's not that I can't write about you, it's that I shouldn't. 

You can imagine, then, that it feels something like suffocating [because writing is my art, and all that I want to do is express you within and betwixt the lines of poetry and prose. Some paint with brushes, I paint with words in the hopes that the audience will see my pictures and within them remember a piece of themselves]. 

How do you reconcile the flesh and blood with the voice you have known for years? The way in which you spin words captivated me from the age of "not-yet-woman" until this very moment, when now, past the awkward and the insecure, I am finding myself resting one hand upon your warm cheek and placing a single kiss on your forehead.

So here I am. Every day. Hearing you in my head and seeing you in my mind's eye. Happy and tormented, all at once and together. Wishing that in those long, drawn out moments when we are not together I could forget you, to spare myself the frustration of remembering that while I barely know you, I miss you.

Is it a fault of mine that instead of resisting you I close my eyes and advance toward your heat like a moth to a flame? I know somewhere, deep down, that I march steadfastly toward a chamber that in a matter of hours will undoubtedly become my personal, gas-filled masoleum.

But I can't (or won't) care. I do not tarry. I move swiftly.

Because though I shoudn't and while I mustn't...

I love you.