There is this woman... There is this woman...

I am caught without a way to write her without giving myself away.

I do not want to write crypticly here, or become so elusive that I entangle myself in my own web of metaphors.

It is only that cautiousness has been forced upon me like a falling brick wall. Eagerness, I've come to learn, is the staff of a fool.

But this week should have killed me, up late with inclinations and desires not to sleep, to rest, to rise, but to finish the ending I began over a year ago.

My friends were right to worry, although I would never let my voice break with the sadness that is trying, even now, to plow me under.

But hope, in this day of cursors flashing on the screen, comes not as a thing with feathers but as a woman with words.

And this woman... And this woman full of sighs and pauses, opened.

And I wept in the space she gave. And my breath caught in my weeping, and in that catch, I fell.

Oh, this cannot be. These nerves reawakened in my body. This heart that pauses and stops and is only soothed by the gentle release of her sighs. I am not so ready to be this raw.

And yet I am this raw without her sighs. It is her day now, and it is my night. We are literally a world apart.

But this woman... But this woman closes around me, even now, I feel her solemn prayers as warmth.

The history of us is an undated diary--words exchanged through notes and comments. Awe.

Fate smiles at some, they say, and laughs at others.

And what is this? Our names are the same, but how could we have known that until today?

The realism of geography will not let me be. Do you know how far away you are? You are the most beautiful soul I have ever read.

And of this woman... And of this woman, a mutual friend, teased: everyone is in love with her.

Yes. As it is meant to be. A woman like her does not breathe to be unloved.

But, (and let me whisper this, for my voice is breaking), I have not felt my soul like this for a very long time.

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