I am tarred to sounds created between tongue and teeth – fixed mid-motion, waiting for your voice to break the silence. I’ve been here before. (Perhaps you’re not so special after all, given that I can say this is a pattern. In thinking you are the one, however, I can deny my fault in this.)
My thoughts are monologues from me to you: with time, I’ve come to understand that you and the men I wait for will not bring to life the fiction I imagine, the words I yearn to hear. I want you.