I’m neither an artist nor a poet. I write — and even that is never good enough to express how I wait for the day I meet you. Pages and pages of stories– both fact and fiction — I have written about love and longing but all of them feel like something’s missing, something above and beyond my comprehension.
I write to you with no time frame in mind. I may meet you tomorrow, or the next year, or the next decade. Or maybe, just maybe, I have met you– on my way to get coffee, or while waiting in line for my train ticket. I write to you without knowing who you are, what you’re like, and where you’re at. I write to you knowing only that you exist, and for some cosmic reason, you exist for me, because of me. I write to you with all the longing my nineteen years on earth could muster, with all there is to me — my heart, my soul, my life. I give them all to you. If only you would come and find me…
