Words, Unspoken (For A Very Special Girl)

Sometimes, these days just hold everyday sounds. It is always just an ordinary day until you come around. Miles mean nothing for all the things in between that separate us. We seem to bridge it easily where distance becomes meaningless. Funny, don't you think? We penetrate the indestructible, all the trivial things that bar our way.

But it's funny to me how these words we exchange back and forth have so much power in them, at least they do over me. I feel my fabric shifting, changing, because they have more substance and weight in them than a wrecking ball. They are like daggers and swords, sharpened to perfection, making the smoothest cuts, going deep in ways I never dreamed. The funny thing is, I would have it no other way. Bleeding for you? Willingly, my love. How else can my love be proved?

I have lifted my tear-stained eyes to Heaven, and I think about how this intimate relationship has blossomed through the simplicity of gentle words, poetry. How can the sincerity, the honesty of words shift all these jagged mountains inside me, hold more power in compassion than any touch I've ever known? How can the words I've heard audibly--just next to my ear--be so weightless next to the worlds that appear, here, before my very eyes? The ones you write me. The ones I respond to. The ones that are more eternal, because they have no end. Yours soften me, take all the rugged scars away, smooth out every coarse edge and trauma. They make me smile and cry again. And I'm not sure--if your words are so powerful--what your touch would actually do to me. Is my fabric, my make-up strong enough to withstand it? There, my own strength would be put to the test. For this chance, and the intensity of what could be a perfect romance, I am willing to take. It is not a sacrifice, love. It is the reason I am here. It is the pinnacle of experience. It is the only thing that has ever meant anything to me. Not everyone gets to feel this. Not everyone knows what it means. I wonder if some even know it exist, that it's real? But I would tell you over and over, through every word, through every gesture, that it means everything in the world to me. That nothing has ever meant anything until you wrote me. The bleeding is what I live for. The cutting deep and every scar. The words you write that smooth them over. Your words, unspoken--still louder than sounds.