The story of Optimism

The story of Optimism

Walking down a road and wondering what the time is. Is it time for him to arrive? Or am I the one who's so spaced out of my wits that I got here early? I can think of a zillion things to say or do, but none to occupy myself. So I stop: beside a book shop, peering through the glass, or at a coffee shop, and contemplate a mocha, or just lean against the wall of a grey building and watch the traffic lights change.

I hate waiting, and I keep wondering whether I got here too early, or whether he's late.

I'm done with cracking jokes. I'm done with playing the fool. I do that, day in and day out. I want to kiss him. Deeply. And think of all the things I could be doing now. With him. Without him. I can't make sense now. Waiting does that to you. Waiting makes you ramble, and doubt. That's the hard part.

The easy part is imagining. Imagining that he's next to you. The silent conversations, the laughs, the held hands, the fingers connecting, the hair twirling. I'm in love. Or could I be? Doubt never leaves you by. But I'm still living high.