Dear You

Dear You,

I've been looking for you.  Waiting, I suppose...but waiting implies a bit of impatience, which, I guess if I'm honest, there's been a bit of that.  I wonder sometimes while my mind drifts out in the gardens where you might be right now.  What are you doing?  What thoughts are playing across your mind?  What does your little eye spy?  Perhaps I already know you, though I get a feeling that I don't.  Maybe there is no "you," but rather a collection of glorious moments and people and periods of my life that make up, collectively, the You that I dream of, though the hopeless romantic in me keeps telling me there's just one of you out there.

I think I can almost see you sometimes; I catch glimpses out of the corner of my eye of your hair in the wind, your feet up with mine in front of the fire, your hands stained with dirt pulling weeds.  Sometimes I hear you breathing next to me.  When I'm in the woods I can almost hear the sound of your boot steps just ahead of me.  But I can't see your face--always your face is hidden, so when I see you I might not recognize you at first.  That's my fear, at least--that I may not recognize you and miss you somehow.  Something tells me that I will, though.  Know that it's you, that is.  My heart will be able to tell straight away, and if it doesn't then I guess you're not You. 

I'm 33 now and to some that may mean I'm "getting old."  But I'm trying my hardest not to live in a world of numbers and quantities; it's just too limiting.  I'll wait until the day my body stops working to meet you.  I won't settle for someone else if you're still out there somewhere.  I'm trying my best not to be impatient and to know that you'll come in your own time, but there's an excitement ready to burst from me, an aching, welling-up of emotion that is nearly impossible to contain, much like the tears wanting to scream from my eyes in this little coffee shop but having to contain them because I don't want people to look at me and think "what the hell is that guy crying about?"  I don't even know why I want to cry--maybe it's the only way I can physically express the way I feel about the fact that you're not with me right now.  Where are you?  I'm 33 and it feels like it's getting late.  Wait, I'm trying to keep it together and not think in time or numbers.  Damnit, linear social construct!  You've fed my left brain too much with your discreteness and preconceived ideas!  I'm free, I'm free from all of that now, at least as much as I can be, but still my schooling remains etched in my skull. 

So maybe you're reading this right now.  Maybe you don't know I'm Me.  I swear I can feel you out there looking for me, too--I just want you to close your eyes and try really hard to find me across the space between us.  Maybe you're already doing that, and that's how I know you're there.  Yep, that's it, I'll tell myself.  I believe in that kind of magic, and so do you.  We'll find each other.  I've been working on stuff; and while I love being alone, I think I'm ready now.  As ready as I can be.  To meet you.

I love you, that's for sure.  I just don't know you yet.