Statue

Before this feeling escapes me, I want to capture it.

I don’t think you will ever know how proud I am of you. I want to shout it from the rooftops. I don’t know if you truly understand, the grandness of what is stirring inside your core when you’re listening to a good piece of music; or when you’re lying awake at night, the insides of your mind churning, as you wonder so intently why sleep eludes you so.

You do have ambition. You do have dreams and passions and ideals. You do want to be great.

How else do you explain that haughty air of arrogance that I so often want to scream at and tear down?

Perhaps, this is my curse. Loving you this way, wishing that I could call you mine, wondering about all the ones that have went before me, and the ones who are to come, and the faint, barely-there whispers of unfinished songs I’ve never heard, whistling in my ears.