When I step in your house your parents stand from the dinner table to hug me. We cook lunch together and I wash the dishes in the sink. Moments like these make me feel like I’m already married into your family.

Except here’s the catch: we aren’t even dating.

Yesterday when we were standing in line at the store, I so desperately wanted to hold your hand. When we reached the front of the line, the salesman offered you a catalog, and your right thumb was touching my left palm glued to the desk. I wasn’t sure if it was an accident or if you were teasing me on purpose. I let my hand touch yours for a few moments longer than it should before I moved it.

And when we get back to your car, you open the door for me. You have always done that, and I no longer know if this is just your personality or if it is because I’m special.

After shopping we go back to your house, and you casually lay your head on my lap while you show me your trip photos. I sweep the hair off your forehead and wish I could kiss you.

I love you so much, and I think you know that.

You just broke up with her a few months ago, and said you weren’t sure if you wanted to be in a relationship right now.

And so I wait. Patience is a virtue.

But patience is so hard when we are this close.

If we were to get engaged and married in the future, it wouldn’t be that outlandish. I can see it happening.

And so I wait for the day that I can hold your hand. And kiss your forehead. And hug my in-laws.

I’m waiting for the day that I can love you like I’ve always wanted to.

This entry was posted in Love and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Penny For Your Thoughts?

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s