Who are you and what do you want from me?
Do you remember when we sat in your car, and it started raining? I stared at the window because I wanted to dance in it with you. There probably wasn’t even enough rain, but the point is you.
Where did you come from?
Your dark image peered into the window, “Can I have your number?”
What inclined you to ask that?
What motivated you to make me feel like the most powerful woman to walk this earth.
Something about that metal car brought vulnerability out of me that night. I shared pieces of myself with someone I wasn’t even sure cared to know.
But you sat there and you cared and somehow it meant something to me.
I read you a story about the man I love. You worshipped its beauty. I began to question it.
The challenge of loving this man, one who would never love me, had shown me everything I wanted. And there you sat in all your humble glory providing it.
Why can’t I love you? It’s like I do – but that’s crazy, I’m emotionally detached and you revoke every ounce of emotion you reveal.
Maybe it’s a high respect for the way you made me re-read my story because I didn’t do the voices to my characters.
I seem to do that a lot with you, Re-read my story.
Or the way you’re not at all afraid of asking me the most, none of your business, personal questions. Darting inquires like you are entitled to their responses and I’m victim to your command…
But those questions take me to a new level of myself and I rest willingly in your control.
Dear Symphony, thank you for insisting we keep communication when I tried to brush you off. I was scared you didn’t want me.
But you do and that’s something so new to me.
You desire my faults.
I find you refreshing. You suck me dry through your mouths questionnaire, only to satisfy me by filling me up with genuine motivation.
Remember when you called me out for lying to you and told me not to do that shit again.
I remember thinking who the fuck does he think he is, yet simultaneously feeling like I wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of my life spilling all my truths to you.
I remember a lot of things about you. Your biggest fear, your favorite food, things that mattered and now don’t. The song you played the first night I met you. And especially that night we spoke on the phone for what seemed like forever. I needed that.
I got butterflies. You kept that powerful gaze on me, and for once I didn’t look away. I wanted to be seen by you.
Then you smiled.
Some things are simple.
Yet somehow in our quick meeting, we have become the most beautiful symphony -the way we’ve extracted the deepest versions of one another.
But I don’t know you and I’m scared to make you my favorite song.
So who are you and what do you want from me?
Miss Parisia B.