Originals

I always resist these urges, this urge to write you long lovely letters full of my love. I desist every single time but I’m weak and my heart pays dearly for every indulgence. But now I never write because I know you wouldn’t think of me; or because I’m secretly wishing you’d miss me first. Secretly wishing your heart would give up waiting and pour out your heart. But I’ve never known a harsh reality such as this.

I resist the urge to muster enough courage to hold your hands in mine and say that my being fell in love with you. Yes, because of the probability of rejection; that we will no longer be the persons we were to each other but persons we only used to know. Of course I remember your peaks of beautiful laughter, your silent moments of contemplation and the moments I felt that we had something a third party couldn’t share but the burden of a broken heart would still be weary on my back.

I resist this feeling when you look into my eyes and make me believe that dreams do come true; maybe they do, but mostly they don’t.