through rose-colored glassesDear You,
My hand, when idle and lonely, is stuck to the trigger of a telephone, my nails running up and down the cream, cracked surface. I cradle it in my palm, letting it rest against the scratches in my skin. I do not click the keys on a rabid search for a number, someone to call, someone to talk to. Would anyone respond to me? No, I keep it in my grasp, turning the light on periodically to see if I’ve missed something, to see if I’ve missed a minute passing by. I let it weigh down my mind as life force, a wish. I am waiting for someone to call me, I am waiting for you.
-Me
(Source: writeletters-dearyou)
