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.