Like most beginnings, ours is exciting.
But it is scary too.
You look so fragile. So tender. So untouched.
Honestly, I didn’t even know what to do with you or how.
I am not saying I do now. But I like things slow. Me, I am the time-taking kinds.
I didn’t give in to your charm on the spur of the moment. I let it grow on me. I waited for it to consume me, irrevocably.
And I gave in just when the moment arrived.
You don’t know, I had forever been seeing you with others. It didn’t bother me. It made me long.
And it left me with a deep, deep, almost dark desire to hold you, clutch you close to my heart and then love you my way.
Don’t mistake it to be a promise. Promises reek of desperation. Just trust me. And be patient.
Patience pays, beautifully. Yes, this comes from experience, though I am not even half as seasoned as you are.
Chances are you won’t like me the first time. Not unheard of.
The second time too won’t be very different. Except, this time there will grow a familiarity between us, the kinds that’s comforting, and the kinds that makes difficulties a tiny wee bit agreeable, if not easy.
Today, in my arms, lying coy yet eager, you don’t appear even remotely dissatisfied. You look rather content and encouraging.
I get your message.
Next time, I will rock my soul out of my fingers, working on you.
I promise, no plectrum.
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