InLoVe

At the water's edge, I sit and talk to you. No one can see you, but I know you're here. You've been here my whole life: when I played in the piles of leaves, when I watched Hey Arnold every night, when I was kissing boys, when I was crying and when I was laughing. You've always been here. I talk to you more than I talk to anyone else and I don't want it any other way. I read your words more than I read anyone else's. Sometimes I think I know who you are, and I answer questions people have about you with a certain sense of pride. But my knowledge of you only takes me so far. And oftentimes I can't answer my own questions about you. I hope that if you were one of us, we'd be friends and I'd act like you and resemble you. But you are so vast and so knowledgeable about the universe. I am but a 3-year-old and you, a Physics Professor. Somehow my sense of you has never changed even though my knowledge of you has. I've always known you are right here. And you have always been right here. Yet you've always been majestic and holy and just, adjectives I aspire to but will never accomplish. I'm attracted to the physical portrayls of you. Anyone who wants to discuss you becomes my immediate friend, even if they have a completely different idea of who you are. I am attracted to books about you, poems and stories of others' beliefs in you. You really do mean more to me than anything else in this world because somehow, someway everything always goes back to you.