AS YOUR BLACK HAIR BLOWS AND THE SUN SETS BEHIND THE TREES;

One of these days, I will get another opportunity to tell you how I really feel. I’m confident that the Lord will hear me out on this one, and give me another shot at you, alone, sitting in the grass while you take off your cleats.  Surely Jehovah will give me another chance to open up my mouth and let the things my cowardice holds back fall out of my soul and into your (not-so-deaf-as-they-once-seemed) ears and you will look at me, with those wide, hazelish-brown eyes and we will come to an understanding. I am confident that Jah sees my strain over you, and has gotten sick of watching me suffer. 

Perhaps our paths will not cross again on that sun-soaked playground called the soccer field. Maybe I’ll run into you in the costume we were both wearing when I fell— me in snug dresses and stiletto heels and seamed stockings;you in dark suits and dark shoes and vests and pocket squares.  Perhaps at the next wedding, at the next big talk, at the very next convention, our paths will meet again and I will be able to, properly, tenderly, unequivocally declare to you all of the fire that burns inside of me, the sweet agony that rules me when you are near.

Perhaps I’ll be able to give to you the sweet and heartwrenching confession I was robbed of, instead of the dazed and terse one that was left in its place.

One day soon I am confident that I will be free of the burden of loving you so steadfastly.