What about the love I deserved?

The kind I saw in films,

Read between pages worn by longing,

The kind Brontë whispered:

“Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”

What about my soul?

If you hear me,

Let it be known through the wind.

Through the knocking of the rain, 

through the night when chill but bright.

You, without face, without sound.

Deaf and blind like the shells.

Walk me through the pain of not knowing You.

Because, if you don’t;

What about this heart?

Still it waits.

Not for forever,

But only for a moment.

A flicker in time.

Where we might meet,

And know we once had the chance.