Waiting.

Waiting for you is like waiting for a flower to bloom.

I know that some just don’t in the end,

That the frost just nips too hard at good, growing, colorful things

But I just refuse to believe

That it’s true

For you.

Because I’ve seen you,

And I know you,

Arguably better than most people

Ever do.

You’re kind, and smart, and brave,

And oh so many other good things,

All the things that will help you

Bloom

But you’re not yet sure

That you believe in Spring.

But I do, oh gosh darn it I do I do I do

And I can’t see how,

If you’re looking

If you’re feeling

If you’re thinking

That someday It won’t find you

Too.

It’s everywhere, It’s all around

It wants to wake you up,

And so do you.

You want It to be real too.

Because if It is real,

So many other things can be.

I. Hate. Waiting.

I’m notoriously bad

At waiting for things to grow.

I want to be their sun,

Their rain,

Their everything

And just fix all that is wrong and dormant and yearning

And seeking.

But I can’t.

I am not Spring.

I am only a fellow flower

That has awakened to It’s warm touch.

And now

I can only hope

That it will fix you too.

You tell me not to wait.

Not because you don’t want me to

But you want me to be free

And happy

And are scared that Spring won’t come.

But my bones know It will

With a deep peace and dedication

Called love

That I cannot shake.

And so I will grow with you

Barely touching

Waiting

To see you soon.