The Words of My Heart
That Lonely Feeling
Anxiously waiting for him to notice me, to need me, to want me. I know that I’m important to him, but it’s hard to believe since he only calls upon me at the end of the night. Sometimes it’s days, weeks, or months before he touches me. But every time that he picks me up, it feels like the first time. Every movement is delicate yet assertive. Every touch has a purpose. As he sits me down, I pray that it’s not over—waiting to see if he’s satisfied and hoping that it’s not months before I feel his hands again. He looks away, looks at me, looks away one more time, and back at me. At last, he grabs me one last time to finish the job. Relieved, I shudder under his touch. Sometimes I wish the Creator of the universe made me a piece of paper instead of a pair of scissors. At least he and I will be together forever, but I really wish he would write more.
