Llama

Like how the moon is there for the ocean, pushing and pulling a steady rhythm in the stead of a beating heart.

Like how the wind fills the sky, giving the birds their freedom.

Like how the crickets sing the sun to sleep and the birds chirp it awake again.

Like how my heart is tuned to another's, aching and unsteady as it beats in desperation with my hand clenched over every passing soul's breast, wishing that the thrum beneath my fingertips would lay my worries to rest.

Since birth, the feeling of being incomplete was a constant company, chiming its sorrows down my cheeks in my lonesome and forcing my hesitant hand to outreach towards cold shoulders in my pursuit to find what was missing.

Years passing without finding my other half eventually left my heart worn and weak, the feeling of hope diminished with every failure. I could never understand how people passed each other in the street without sparing a second glance and hoping, wondering.

A lack of belief, probably.

It was my belief, I knew, that would be my downfall.

But I also knew it would be my belief that would give me the wings I needed to soar to new heights and breathe in new air.

They always told me that love would set me free.

And staring into your eyes, my hand on your chest and yours on mine, I knew nothing to be truer.