nothing about the weather

Childish ideas a fifteen year old once moralised to forget the contents of my bedroom in trust they'd forget theirs. Too many romance movies and ambition to satisfy the dreamy.
Now
A lonely count between the hours of seconds asserting the confidence it will happen. And I won't be waitinf much longer, it's just around the corner; my first dream is near it's end and my exploration is beginning to expand beyond myself,  and hopefully onto you: whoever you are, and then I close the fable persisting in denial for something of my own I can write about.