"In All the Ways I Know How"

I just want to talk to you —
not with small words tossed between strangers,
but with the kind of conversation that lingers like perfume on fingertips.
I want to know the way your silence sounds.
I want to hear the echoes of your thoughts in stillness.
There’s a universe behind your eyes, and I ache to step inside it.

To know who you are,
truly,
is something that sits quietly at the center of my chest.
Not the version you share with the world,
but the tender, unguarded Carl — the one who dreams alone,
the one who sighs into pillows at midnight and hums tunes to himself in the kitchen.

You are a thrilling novel,
and I, a willing reader,
clinging to every chapter, every subtle shift in your tone,
every glance that doesn’t ask to be understood,
but deserves to be.

Every time I’m near you, it feels like I’m turning a page —
and your story continues to unravel in ways I didn’t know I needed.
You never rush to reveal yourself,
but what you do show is golden,
quietly stitched in silver thread.

Every line draws me closer.
Every habit, every laugh, every delicate detail —
they pull me in.
Like a melody hummed in a dream,
you stay with me long after the moment passes.

I want to know the dreams you hold close,
even the ones that tremble in the light.
The ones you don’t say aloud — I want to hear them,
hold them like something sacred,
and whisper that they deserve to bloom.

If I ever get the chance,
I will love you in all the ways
you never knew you needed.
In the silences, in the chaos,
with patience, reverence, and unwavering softness.

Because my feelings are unfiltered, unforced, and true.
They don’t come with strings or conditions —
only quiet hopes and the softest offerings of care.
I don’t want to change you.
I want to see you, exactly as you are.

I’ve always felt this soft distance between us.
Not cold, but cautious — like standing before a door that might open,
might not.
Still, I wait, not to be let in forcefully,
but for the moment you feel ready.

And so I write this,
knowing I might just be writing into the void.
Maybe you’ll never read it.
Maybe this longing will live in these unsent pages forever.
But even so, you are worth writing for.

If I could ask for just one glimpse —
one clear look into what you’re thinking —
I’d cradle it like something fragile, something precious.

Because above all, Carl,
I see you.
Even in the space between us.
Even in your quiet.
Even when you don’t see yourself.

With everything I know how to give,
always,
me

April 2,2025