You make me want to write.
That’s right—you make me want to pick up that black pen (the one that has ink as smooth as the soft back of any cat’s ear, and the color so intense I could just drown in it if I think too hard about it) and grab a small maroon notebook with off-white pages and constant grey wire lines and just go to town. You make me want to explore every feeling I’ve ever felt, and turn them all into pictures and people and circumstances and places and give them to all of humanity in stolid black letters trucking across the smooth snowy pages of whatever book you cause me to write. You make me want to throw all hesitation out of the window and hole myself up in a beautiful cabin somewhere starry with just fruit to survive on and chewing gum for thinking until I’ve emerged with some fragment of a gem to polish up and give to you to inset in the crown you don’t have but oh-so-definitely deserve.
I don’t know what it is but knowing that you’re proud of me makes me want to strive to do the very best with any ounce of talent I have in my body and make something worth being proud of. Simply knowing that you love me makes me want to sing for you in the only voice I have: that of typewriter fonts and coffee stains on post-it notes and late nights and random thoughts and fragmented sentences and beauty that makes me cry.
I don’t deserve to have someone believe in me (but you do); and since you do, I want to give you a reason to believe. I want to give you the books and books you said you could see on your bookshelf one day. I want to move you to tears, break your heart and convince you that happily ever after doesn’t depend on circumstance but what we make it and hopefully I’ve made it very good, because you told me I could. I want to take your breath away and reconsider the way that the ocean smells and make you look at the clouds differently. I want to prove you right.
Someday I’m going to prove you right.