I'm a decaying piece of organic matter, but you can call me Claire. I'm a bookworm, isolated in the depths of non-reality, I live in splotches of color and orangey sunsets-- sometimes even in the absence of color at all, like a boring newspaper spread on Sunday mornings. I breath and long, intricate sentences come out, weaved neatly of beautiful adjectives and solemn metaphors. I whisper activism in my deepest sleep. I am alive in the most ways possible, I have an eye for beauty and an ear for music. I sit alone sometimes and ask the world why I'm here, and I still haven't got much of an answer. I will never give up on asking. I will never stop thinking, and I like that about myself.
Waiting for you means a couple lifetimes of nervous glances at the time.
A few anxious peaks around the corner to make sure you’re not waiting at the next stoplight just down the street.
It means a million hesitations to call you and make sure you didn’t get in a wreck,
(and realizing that if I called while you were driving it might be the cause of the wreck.)
Talking to you puts more breath into my lungs and more beats in my heart.
And if this sounds cheesy, then we are the gouda of relationships.
I love you.
