You probably don't know me very well. Or I may have never met you.
It may have been that our steps have been so patterned as to have never met. Or perhaps you are a fumbling observer of my life, watching me but unable to bring yourself to speak, choking on whatever inhibitions your foolish heart may be holding fast. Perhaps you are waiting for me to look your way and, if I already know you, give you a long, deliberate glance. Perhaps you are on the other side of the world, lying in the dark and whispering to your Father about your loneliness, your empty heart standing by, waiting to be filled. Maybe we shook hands or locked eyes across the aisle or hallway, or exchanged some awkward somethings. Or maybe I don't even know your delicious name.
I long for it, you know. I want to know what it is like to flip off the lights and be electrified because you're standing right beside me, your silhouette barely visible, your breathing audible, and recognize you for who you are. I want to walk with you and talk of great things, things we certainly don't understand, and pretend to be smarter than we are, then to laugh at our limited knowledge. I want long car rides with nothing but your breathing to listen to, because that will be enough. I want to sit beside you in church and feel your passion for God shivering in your very blood. I want to hear your testimony, and I want you to tell me, tenderly, if you've ever slipped and sold your body to the wages of the devil--I will forgive you if you have. I want to bring you home to my sisters and let them pull your hair, tie you to a tree, pretend to interrogate you, then stand with me in the driveway, waving as you pull out, then turn to me and say, 'Whoah.' I want my parents to burst with pride every time they see you, as though you're their own son. I want Mom to beam when you say her mashed potatoes truly are amazing, and Dad to nod his head in thoughtful agreement as you deliberate the Scriptures. I want my friends to tease me when I break the news that you and I are 'rather serious.'
I can wear a purity ring, dear heart, but this does not itself make me pure. Only Jesus can cleanse me, as only He can cleanse you. If you are already a fervent believer, I challenge you in the blood of our shared savior to keep yourself pure for me, as I will strive to for you. I have given away wasted love, touched those dark places of sin with unclean hands, hoping that if I scrubbed hard enough, the darkness would wash from my veins along with my sin. But we ourselves cannot clean, love.
Do you think it odd that I write to you in this manner? Perish that hasty musing; I but long to see you, maybe see you for the first time or hear your already-familiar voice gently proclaim a love. How thrilling to one day hold your hand in mine, marvel at its craftsmanship, how God has formed the very follicles and veins. But until then, wait for me. I want you, if you exist for me, but if you never come riding on that white horse, I pray that contentment will fill my soul.
Until we may clasp each others' hands in the celebration of finding or rediscovering each other, please wait for me. Pray for me. Keep yourself pure. Wait for me, love.
I will wait for you because I know you will be worth it.