Sometimes I wonder how I manage to talk to you at all. With the urgent need to tell you how I feel and the constant reminder that I need to be patient, the tugging gets to tearing at times like these. Late at night, or pretty late anyway, after a long day at work, not really doing work, and wanting to talk to you.
The words spring to my mouth so readily I almost have to hold it shut. The dream is so real I can almost touch it, but have I forgotten how to reach it? The image of you in a gown to bring even Buttercup to envy, of pulling you up to my side and riding to the ball, where we fly across the dance floor with grace and beauty unmatched even in my dreams.
How I remember the way your eyes sparked when I used to see you, and how blind and foolish I was not to see and appreciate it then.
