I live in two-minute mornings—jeans, shirts, jackets. This is how I live: efficient, unadorned, practical. But in my closet hangs evidence of who I'm waiting to be: a little black dress, a glittery top with suede pencil skirt, a flowing amber sundress. These aren't ornaments for someone else's pleasure. They're promises to myself, waiting for the right witness.
I want to be a person desired. Not reduced to an object, but recognized as a being of beauty. And I want you to be the one who sees it.
I dream of cooking you dinner in the deep red dress, letting you taste my city through the flavors I know best. Of 3am coffee dates in the emerald slip, your fingers tracing its silk hem as we talk until sunrise. Of driving out to catch pink sunsets in coordinated denim, your hand warm on my thigh as the sky ignites.
This is what I've never known: to love so deeply that transformation feels necessary. To want to bloom not from emptiness, but from fullness. To have someone whose attention makes beauty feel like breathing rather than performance.
The weight of searching for you sits heavy on my chest. I know I'll survive without you. But will I ever feel truly alive until you're here to witness me step into the woman I'm keeping carefully folded away?
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