It's some kind of a.m. Here I sit thinking of You. Same songs on repeat in iTunes. My music might surprise You, especially the ones I have listened to over 100 times. My favorites I enjoy dancing to when alone. Anyone else still use iTunes? I wonder. I imagine You chuckle at that perhaps, or a secret smile. Old laptop I never bothered to update. Why when I have such amazing music to play when I write? Yes, I'm writing. I try to send it, but my finger halts before selecting Your name, pressing the key to send to You. I know You will enjoy it, the scene, the words that spilled forth, my thoughts on display...for You. A nice surprise for You to read, something You will know I wrote with You in mind. That fear embraces me before I release it, gift it to You. I wish I could have written in my own writing, sealed it, and been able to send it via mail, a slow process that would possibly hand me an extra week or two before You would receive and read, possibly not knowing it was from me until You slip the delicate pages from the envelope and begin to read the folded lines. Unless Your eyes scour the location near the stamp. You are smart and would already know, much more so than I. Still I pause, hesitation pulls me back. My fingers curl into my palm. Almost an itch where my short nails dig into the creases, maps read by fortune tellers. They clicked keys just minutes before while my feet tapped the floor, or floating through the air conducting my own invisible orchestra for a verse or chorus. I reveal these secret parts of myself, yet still I pause to send. Debate with the many voices that cry out in favor of You, the ones in my heart that know You, hold tight to the feelings of safety, no judgment, trust, peace of mind I haven't felt a long time before You. Yet my hand stills. Perhaps this one reveals a little more than previous. I wish to not feel so fragile before You. I may wait for now, but I will share with You someday...

A healthy relationship should bring out the best in you, not hold you back.