It feels as though I will always be writing for you,
You who I am yet to meet.
I have a beautiful exterior,
A shell as hard as ice,
Being cold can be beautiful too you know.
I feel as though I have been saving up my insides for you,
I have yet to meet anyone who I let enter.

I feel as though I am waiting for you.
You who I am yet to meet,
You who I already love.
I know that I don't need to rush this,
Yet, sometimes I feel myself yearning.
I know that I will find you,
But it feels as if I am looking for you in all the wrong places.
It feels as though I am learning to be hurt, caged, and suppressed, over and over again,
As if this is all supposed to prepare me for the real thing,
Is there a real thing?

I find myself losing hope,
I find myself pining,
Aching,
Wishing,
I find myself running,
From person to person,
From lips to lips,
From hands to hands,
Eyes to eyes,
Bed sheets to bed sheets,
Swimming,
Drowning.

Sometimes I wonder where you are,
I know you will be curious about me,
You will ask me to recite my entire day for you,
You will ask me what I ate and whether I enjoyed it,
You will bring me flowers without me asking,
You will read my writing without me giving it to you,
You will make me tea,
You will write me letters.

Sometimes I wonder who you are with,
I wonder if they hold you,
If they let you be you,
If they make you feel alive.

I want you to know how much I love you,
How much I will always love you.