You say I write too much, but you know I don't call myself a writer.
I do my best work like this, and so do the greatest. I guess that's why you dont write me love poems. I guess that's why my journals paint a grey picture and exclude the colour.
I'm a hopeless romantic. Truly, I'm hopeless and romantic. I wish I knew what it was about you that pulls me in and doesn't let go. When you ask me to tell you what I like best about you, I get flustered. You want to hear a quantifiable list, so how do I explain the intangible? How do I explain that feeling I get when I hear the elevator and I run to the mirror to make sure I look okay? I'm not entirely comfortable around you, and most would say that's a bad thing. I see it as proof that I dont want to let that spark fade, ever.
I want us to go places together, in every sense. We're holding hands with our feet firmly on the ground, but the backgrounds are changing.
Hold on tight, baby, we're not there yet.
