Take me to an opera, and let me grip your arm whenever a note reverberates so dazzlingly through the concert hall that I am consumed with emotion.
Let me rant and rave, for hours after it’s finished, about how it seemed almost celestial, enigmatic, and utterly unbelievable that those sounds could be produced by a human being.
And admire me, babbling away, bibulous (when it comes to wine), occasionally brazen and brash, but always beautiful.
Chase me down the hallway, where we can finally paint paradisiacal masterpieces from the palettes that reside on our fingertips.
Untamable love. Two symmetrical misfits, who fit together like February pressed against a pale gray sky, forcing precipitation through the cracks in our dignity.
I don’t know you yet, but I’ve seen your face before.
You’re hidden in the gothic facades that I find so eerily familiar.
You lie in wait, just beneath the keys of every piano I’ve had the pleasure of playing.
You reside in every photograph I’ve ever longed to plummet into, whether it be Greece in August, or Ireland in April.
I don’t know you yet, but I know you will be spontaneous and irrefutably incomparable.
And I will wait,
because even if you never come along,
I will find you,
by seeking my own worth,
and finding that it resides within no one but myself.
