My Dear Friend,
What is it called when the ocean gears up for a big wave, and the water gets pulled away from the shore with such a force that the sand at the bottom seems to be screaming?
That moment when everything feels naked and scared,
suspended, waiting for a crash?
That moment of an inhale,
without the knowledge of an exhale?
That moment of a maybe?
That moment.
A moment.
It’s just a moment.
Or is it The Moment?
What is it called?
Fear?
Fear.
Fff…
What is it called when your soul gears up for a big release, when the veils of pretense get pulled away with such a force that your heart seems to be screaming?
That moment when you feel naked and scared,
suspended, waiting for a crash?
Waiting for that wave which never comes.
That moment of holding your breath.
That moment.
A moment.
The Moment?
My Dear Friend,
What does it mean that I want to build a time machine
and meet you when you were seven?
When skinned knees and getting picked last for dodge ball hurt more than an absence?
What does it mean that I want to be seven too
and hold your hand when your dog dies,
helping your parents lie about a farm she now lives on,
knowing the truth?
What does it mean that I want to make you believe that lie?
My Dearest,
Why does a moment without your voice feel like an eternity?
Why does it feel like The Moment?
Gaya Ink 