I’ve met you in the pages of the romance novel I intend to write to someday. I’ve met you in the numerous sunsets on the top of a mountain, with only me for company. But mostly I met you here.
I’ve tried being in touch with you but for reasons best known to you, you’ve chosen to remain distant. Yes, I have been told how demanding I am.
In sufficient time, I might have reached out for you with greater alacrity, even inching toward physical intimacy. The kind where you reach out mid-conversation to whip away a stray eyelash from the cheek and rest your fingers longer than necessary.
But I’m tiring of the wait, my questions and your silence.