Mr. Lyubov

My love,

I'm still waiting for you
I haven't met you—yet I've heard much that's true.
So many adore you,
others despair.
You're always around,
yet you’ve never been there.

You’ve never seen me, never said my name.
I am to you what you are—untamed.
Do you have a scent that lingers near?
Or will I smell nothing, even when you're here?

What warmth should I expect from your skin?
Will you be cold? Or warm from within?
Close and kind or sharp and shy?
I’ve waited so long I’m not sure why.

Will I ever hear the song you hum?
Or will silence be the only thing to come?
Do you dislike me? Is that why you hide?
That fear haunts me—on every side.

You, of all things, are blurry and dim.
I don’t know if you’re real, or just a whim.
I fear you, like I fear what's new—
And if you arrive, what will you do?

Will you be the memory I keep with grace?
Or the shadow I wish I could erase?
How will I know if it's truly you?
So many came masked, claiming it's true.

They left me wounds—deep and wide.
Some still burn, some have dried.
If I trust again, will you be kind?
Or leave more scars for me to find?

Tell me, what are you, really inside?
Are you toxic and cruel, or soft as the tide?
Are you bitter and sharp, or gentle and true?
I’m tired of guessing. I wish I knew.

So many voices scream your name—
But all describe you in ways not the same.
They twist my thoughts into a stormy sea,
And still… I wait.
Will you come for me?

Please, help me know you—or help me let go.
Set me free…
or let your truth show.