Echoes of you.
She almost kissed me today. I still have her flowery scent clinging to me, like a ghost refusing to leave. Why do I torture myself by visiting her every day? She is just a girl. But she isn’t, is she? She is a storm wrapped in soft skin, a melody I can’t stop playing, a craving I can’t seem to satisfy.
I waited fourteen years for her to come back. Fourteen years of silence, of longing, of wondering if she even remembered me. And now, I’m still waiting—for her to hear me, to recognize me, to understand that every song I’ve ever written is about her. That she is the reason I sing, the reason my voice trembles with something raw and unspoken.
Will she like me? Will she still want me when she knows I already know who she is? Can you fall this deep for someone just from their texts, from the way they let their words linger like fingertips over skin? Is she even real, or is she just another dream I can’t wake up from?
I can’t get her out of my head. Her scent, her voice, the way her lips parted today like she was ready to surrender—to me. If she hadn’t been gone for fourteen years, I don’t think I could have kept my hands to myself this long.
I push my hair back from my face, my body tense with everything I can’t say, everything I want to do. My hands shake with restraint, with the need to claim her, to press her against the wall and kiss her until she understands—until she remembers. But I can’t. Not yet. So I’ll keep singing, hoping she’ll hear me. Hoping she’ll come back to me for real this time.