Farthest Apart.

I want you to read this one day. Perhaps, I want you to want to read this someday. But you would never know how, or that this even existed. Maybe this didn't really exist.

*----*

I am a man who waits a lot.
I wait for you.
Don't wait for me.

Sometimes, I say things I don't want to.
Those times, those times I hope, I hope that you can really hear what I want to say.
It's like I speak a different language.
A language of opposites.
I'm okay. I'm not okay.

Don't wait for me. Wait for me.

Sometimes I wish the image I see in the looking glass was clay.
To mould it into what would fit your heart.
There is a thread and it will break.
The thread of my sanity.

Can you feel the famine raging in my heart ?
The roar of denial, splitting asunder my very own hope ?
And then I, like the fool you see, put the pieces back together.
Can you see my riven wish ?

What more must I give ? I'll give with just enough room for a spontaneous second thought.
There is care I wish from you.
There is care. That I wish you'd give.

This is no language of opposites. I have hidden it away like I hide away the words that I wish to convey but don't matter; this is a language of truth: I wish for some acceptance. Some capsule of belonging, some collision of beliefs.

Wait. What is this I see ?

A splintered destination. Awaiting me.