I wrote a lot of things down in the past few days, trying to come up with the right combination of words that could properly convey how I felt.

And I came up short.

But still, I wanted to say something, so here I am talking about what I can’t do.

Oh, there are so many things I can’t do.

I can’t execute the turn, the spin, the leap that could express my feelings through movement.

I don’t have the proper experience that could be a service to the others I want to support.

I lack the assurance and clarity of mind I need to firmly leap into a decision that will shape my scholarly path.

I can’t express to him how much I’d like to simply lie on a grassy hill in the dead of night and learn his hopes and dreams and insecurities – I must wait. (It would help if I wasn’t allergic to grass.)

My flimsy speeches are not enough to convince her that she’ll be okay.

I can’t even make a dang cake without splitting the almond paste it’s enrobed in.

But thankfully, that’s not what love’s about.

Thank you, love, for taking my broken, messy thoughts and actions and life, and making them meaningful.

And thank you that the cake tasted delicious, anyways.

Love,
February

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