journal · prose

The Morning

I drop harshly from what masqueraded as feather flight, thudding onto the cold, unyielding ground. You glance down at me, confused, wondering which path to take, what decision to make, torn between apprehension and desire. I gaze up at you, stricken by the shock, my mind shouting, desire! The sound deafens me, dulling my senses. I am convinced that you must hear it too, but from my lips there is only silence. I cannot speak. I am not able to tell you that I am no longer worried, that I would set each fear and trouble aside and am so willing, so ready, so longing to discover what we can be. Embrace me, I think. Let me be yours. I yearn the words, will them to be true with aching ferocity, hunger for you to say that you have chosen at last, that I am worth it, despite each misgiving, the unknown, your anxiety over an uncertain future. But there is only silence, slowly enveloping us.


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