Fingers dancing over the keys but how do I command them to speak for the one whose words are like the moon in a cloudy night. Present yet hiding. Beaming but too coward to shine its light on.
Words and I, we have a long history together, and apart. I'm forever chasing the charm that words emit. It doesn't move, but I've grown up old and tired taming it to come to me.
And for what? You may ask. For me, I might say.
Atoms make up everything, but so does my prancing heart is made up of words of love, of hope, of terror. But where are they when I need them the most? In an alley through my veins, so malleable I can stuff all of them together, for how many as I want to, without breaking.. yet.
I lie at night wondering the ratio of words I have said to you that were true, to the ones that I have said that were truer but only in the language of my choice. Of silence. Of which I nurtured since young it has become second nature. Of which I have thrown at you a thousand of times, and yet here you are still, listening as if I have more to say, peering as if there's more to come.
Me and my words are supposed to be mine, and mind alone. Or so I say. Or so I think. Until it betrays me and tires out of being only with me that the only thing left to say is about you.