I don’t blame you. That girl was made for hope.

A cruel gift unleashed on the impatient. She turns her head to you with the velocity one only gets from being romanticized by a million fools a minute. She doesn’t run. No one can catch her. So you decide to try. You give her your number. Wish your phone lit up and sang as easily as a cigarette. But she won’t call. That girl is a catalyst. And you are the impatient. If you didn’t know how to wait, you will. If you didn’t know what it’s like to be tough, someone’s got to break you so you can try again, right?

Suit yourself. But don’t call me for help anymore. You think you have trouble waiting? People I fall in love with, they walk up to me. Start conversations. Call me every day, my phone lights up and sings. My heart lights up and sings. But I learned patience, because they are only looking for a shortcut to her. Her, her, and always her.