#warzoneofgoodintentions

Being in love with him will be a stillness that doesn’t make me uncomfortable. Silence that isn’t deafening, but healing. Love will be rejuvenating.

All the times my world was set on fire, I assumed it had to be love. What else could be so illuminating? Turns out gasoline easily catches flame. I’ve been setting myself on fire and reaping no benefits.

Maybe I’ll never experience love as a grand gesture of the universe. Maybe the love I want -the love I need- will unfold slowly, delicately, quietly

I woke this morning, my thoughts covered in something like gauze, except my thoughts of you:

they were crystal clear.

You’re a different kind of drug, and I’m still not sure what you do to me. But I like it: the warmth over my skin, the tingle in my fingers and toes. On my lips.

The television glows and Futurama plays quietly. You’re removing your contacts in the bathroom off the bedroom, singing to yourself. You are where my attention is focused as I’m shirtless and cross-legged on your bed, waiting for you to join me.

You slip beneath the comforter, arm raised and welcoming me to the space you’ve made. I fold myself in, pressing as close to you as possible. You are warmth and calm. I’m starting to think you may be love.

I remember kisses on my forehead and my face buried in your neck. How could that not be love? I remember your fingers woven between mine at night and holding me to your chest before I head home in the morning. What about the look in your eyes last Friday, just before you kissed me? How could I not believe that was love?

In my experience, the good things never last long enough. The pleasant, still, and hypnotic nature of our Now disappears: I’m truly seeing Us for the first time and my heart breaks:

you only call me after you’re a few drinks in, but I’m always hoping you’ll want me close again.

I did the thing I said I wouldn’t and find myself falling quickly for you. In defense of myself, I’ve never been good at slow and steady.

I was doing quite well at keeping the rising desire tamed, but you held me too tightly and so closely. You kissed me too sweetly. You felt too much like a home; I can’t help myself.

So now I’m imaging a future with you and your smiling dog, filled with nature excursions and learning how to go camping. You’ll fill the spaces between my fingers that I didn’t know ever could be, and I’ll write you poetry while you sleep beside me on the couch.

We could build a life and I’m beginning to make peace with how ahead of myself I’ve gotten. This has been my natural way of things, and I’m learning to celebrate the grandiosity of my love.

I don’t feel okay. I don’t feel like I will ever be okay. My brain tells me this can’t be entirely true, but my hands continue to shake as I sit in bed at midnight.

Sometimes one thing gets better, and it radiates. Other things brighten and bring relief. I become obsessive with my holding of things, thinking good things will come if surrounded by good things.

But these hands hold heavy, crushing what I thought would bring me joy, into a fine dust. From head to toe, I’m covered in it. How will I ever be okay?

I rinse myself off and try again to remind myself that bad moments don’t make a bad life; that I should be gentle with myself and flexible with the world. I keep reminding myself that “maybe someday”, but 

I’ve never really had a home so I create them in all of you. Many believe home is a place, but maybe it’s all the faces I’ve ever loved.

It’s where the heart is and mine feels well-traveled, trampled. My heart feels lost and not mine at times. Home is where I’ve always wanted to be, but have never been.

I build these places, but remain lonely even when I’m not. Making a home out of the fragile material of People guarantees heartbreak.  Love changes and people leave. There are always holes.

It’s never been one consistent place and most days I’m not convinced it even exists. I break my own heart and give it away hoping that Home is real; maybe someone will build their own with what I’ve shared.

I fell in and I didn’t realize it. I had the entire day to myself, and all I thought about was being with you. This I know is desperation. My loneliness rears its head.

I spent the entire night trading shifts with you: your back pressed to my chest, my arm wrapped around you or your face buried into the nape of my neck, my hand in yours at my heart. No pressure, no intentions, just a desire to be close. Simplicity has never existed for me in such a way.

And here is my heart and mind to complicate things, my past and desires for the future speaking a bastardized tongue. What I want is to find someone to share the rest of my life; what I want is to no longer be alone. The line between finding someone who fits and someone who fills my time gets blurry.

I live in the grey. My options become colorless as they meet my fingertips, and uncertainty continues to flourish and spread. Take me back to the time where you moving closer to me was natural, where my arm belonged around you and the night passed peacefully.

To all the men who’ve touched my skin for only a moment, but haven’t known my heart: I’m sorry. You’ve been a distraction from myself, and we all know that’s all you’ll ever be.

Your bodies require no afterthoughts; they all vanish after the rush and much before morning dawns. There is a beautiful simplicity in strangers.

Strangely, I feel at home between an unknown someone’s lips. The power of my life sparks and the world is mine again. Maybe that’s a problem, but that’s when it feels most right.

A calm finds me as I close the door behind me, leaving another behind. We are living selfishly. I don’t feel bad for you or me until my head lies to rest on my own pillows