I used to think I knew who I was writing to. I used to think it was decided. I used to think it was just a matter of time and patience and trudging through all the metaphorical shit that one must certainly trudge through to get back to where one began.
And then slowly, ever so slowly, that thought--that bone-deep belief slipped right out the soles of my feet. It slipped out on long walks home and as I stood on the hardwood floor of my very own kitchen cleaning dishes and making dinners of little more than cheese and bread and wine. That thought now litters the ground on which I stand, I'm knee deep in it, but it's not in me--not anymore.
So now I'm left to wonder not just who I'm writing to, but how it is we'll meet.
How will the love story begin?
Maybe it'll be a long look across a crowded bar. Maybe you'll sink me before I even know your name.
One can hope.
I think, the thing is, whether it's a massive clusterfuck or that long-held-look--it'll do.
Yours in anticipation. Always yours. Already.