Just Another

She is the four course meal of my life.

Her long, beautiful legs and the way that they carry her, like a delicious drink of coffee, milk and three sugars. As if she was smoother than an affogato, but just as energizing.

Her kindness, like an appetizer that never fills but gorges me. My greed will beg for more until I'm stuffed, but with her soul I never shall be.

And then emerges my main course: her laughter.

This is my favorite restaurant in the city. Nobody serves the harmonies of her laughter quite like she does. The recipe buried deep in her lungs, I will become a surgeon and a chef to extract the delicacies she holds.

And when I'm filled to the brim with her merriment (I never shall be), the waiter will ask if we are interested in dessert.

As if the lava cake in her eyes hasn't been awaiting me for the entirety of our meal, as if the richness of her eyes hasn't awaken the sweet tooth within me that only she can bring out.

We will share whatever dessert captures her attention in the same way that she does mine. I will tip well. And we will walk home together, hand in hand, and I'm just the luckiest, because

it doesn't matter where we are,

I can't remember the last time I had a redbull. plain.

It can't have been more than a year ago, maybe even less.

But there was something in the can that I had today.

It didn't taste like the last time.

It tastes how I remember it,

sitting in the hot car, the parking lot of the gas station near our home,

the rush of sugar and the taste of sweet tarts,

the bubbles sparkling down my throat.

It tastes of a redbull that isn't my own,

it's yours.

It's just something I can't handle.

Of course, I want to marry you.

Of course I love you.

But I've also loved before you.

I've planned countless ideal weddings, different flowers, different venues, different people, different me.

And each time, I believed.

I believed so hard, believed that what I felt was love,

what I felt was marriage worthy,

what I felt was commitment.

Yet, here I am.

Another wedding to be planned,

But can you blame me?

In all the years that i’ve lived,

can you look around and tell me who’s stayed?

In all the years that i’ve lived,

what do I have to show for my life,

if not for the things i’ve held onto

My hands are raw with the responsibility,

My grip no longer as strong as it used to be.

sunny warm days together,

listening to music quietly on the freeway home,

because there’s nothing to say,

a day so full of shared love,

let this quiet car ride be what puts our time together to rest,

I don’t want to be high anymore.

I don’t want to be anxious anymore.

Everyday I feel closer and closer to it than the first time.

I want to feel the sun on my skin again. And not worry if it burns. I want to feel the same warmth as my adolescence.

I want fleeting moments of reminiscence.

I want the anxiety medications that I’ve been too scared to accept.

I want to schedule the surgery that’s supposed to save my life.

I want more.

I want to feel again.

But it doesn’t matter.

Because I will keep being high,

as if I couldn’t help it.