Space

It was better when there was space

and mystery

You didn’t know the contours of my thighs
Nor delighted gasps when fingers find 

I didn’t wait for your words with bated breath
Like a child’s Christmas Eve
I didn’t feel the hollow in my heart
Every time you come and leave 

There’s a Man

There’s a man.
His hair wispy like a model’s, looking perfect in pictures.
My favorite part is how disheveled it gets when we are naked;
Strands bouncing up and down with each passionate grunt.

There’s a man.
I only get small glimpses of what our life would be:
Giggles in the bedroom.
Hand-holding across busy city intersections.
Sushi at a small restaurant in Brooklyn.
Eyes that see me first when he wakes.

There’s a man.
The way I cherish him is different.
I would kiss every tiny freckle on his face if I saw him each day;
I’ve uttered my most heart-felt to my bedroom walls at night,
because he’s hours away.

There’s a man.
He’s one long longing.
No one I desire more and no one further from my reach.
More time apart than together; our moments, fleeting and glittery.

There’s a man I love.
I probably always will.
He never seems to let me go.
For that, alone, I love him still.

Shouldn’t We

Shouldn’t we always know it won’t last?

That girl, curled under her blanket,

Sleepily murmuring romantic ideals to a man

On the other end of the phone who

Returned each and every one:

 

She didn’t know.

She had forgotten, somehow.

Worth Its Weight in Gold

They weren’t kidding when they said, “anything worth having is worth fighting for.” I feel like I’ve been fighting my inner monologue for months on this one. He’s just so damn beautiful that I can’t help it.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, willingly: he’s gorgeous. Like, stop, turn your head and gawk, gorgeous. But that’s not what I mean when I say he’s beautiful. It’s in the way he so thoughtfully tells me that I am. The way he clings to my shoulder when we’re sitting on the couch and only have precious hours together. How he smells when I am pressed against his neck in a long embrace. He’s beautiful when he remembers to tell me goodnight or when he makes himself vulnerable. He tells me that he doesn’t want me to hurt the way I’ve been hurt in the past and will do everything he can to avoid it. He tells me I’m a goddess. He is so damn beautiful, because he truly cares.

Doesn’t make this easy, though, because, of course, I had to find him in a not-so-convenient location and time in his career.

Anything worth having is worth fighting for.

On days when my brain shouts at me that I deserve better–that I should be with someone I can relish daily in the flesh–my heart remembers that she was there not too long ago and it wasn’t all that great. When I’m afraid that he’ll lose interest, because there are so many gorgeous girls in NYC and the industry in which he works, he reassures me that I am so attractive to him because he finds my mind sexy, too.

When I am feeling positive, which is most of the time, I am astounded at how I have found a man so amazing; it is hard to believe he’s real.

One day, I said to him: “You are the perfect combination of sultry, dirty, sweet, and tender.” His response: “Just to you. I feel comfortable being all those things with you.”

It’s like I awoke from a long, wintery nightmare and walked straight into a Disney movie. It’s surreal.

He says perfect things to me. No one is perfect, and I sure wouldn’t want him to be, but about 85% of the time, he is perfect. Five percent goes to his foibles, and the other ten to the distance and time spent apart. I like him so much that I actually look forward to fighting with him, missing him, or being worried about him…because, I want it all. Eating all the frosting off a cake comes with a bellyache, sometimes, and I am fully prepared to take it all on.

He says that I say perfect things to him. It’s second nature to me. I cannot believe another woman has never said the things I’ve said to him! And yet, for some reason, he’s astounded that I tell him what I crave about him, what I want, and how I feel. None of it is fabricated, and it rolls off my tongue so easily, because when something is so real, how can it not?

That man is my dream fantasy. It scares me to even think about it in depth at times. Like, what? This is insane! He is intoxicatingly beautiful. It’s like someone handed him the secret code to turning me on. He turns me on physically, emotionally, and mentally…it’s a trifecta.

Most of the time, after talking to him, I feel like I took some kind of opiate. I am drugged. Relaxed, but charged. Singularly-focused. Hazed and foggy. Caught somewhere in a chimerical dream and reality. It’s hard to come back down to earth after immersing myself in him, at times. I don’t think anyone has ever quite had the affect he does. It’s uncanny.

It takes all of these “good feels” each day to keep my mind positive when there are days where we don’t get the chance to talk a lot or when I have no idea when I’ll see him next. I could just say no thanks to the whole situation, but how can someone let go of something real when real is what they’ve been searching for their whole life?