- The location.
- The family.
- The friends.
- The living situation.
- The best friend.
- The job.
- The responsibilities.
- The car.
- The school.
- The boy.
- The roommate.
- The pet. (from kitten to kitty)
- The leisure.
- The communication.
- The priorities.
- The band.
- The Internet.
- The mindset.
- The money.

A lot of things can change in a year.

The stream of water in my shower holds back the peaceful feeling I adore from a perfect shower.

Other than that,

All is well, my loves.

The toxic stress of selfish failures have finally let go of my shoulders,

Leaving room for the things that matter:

The man who loves me in a way I never imagined,

A kitty who adores and cuddles with new found tenderness,

A new wage that respects my living conditions,

The physical possession I survive alongside of

And a new group of smiles to cherish time spent together,

Rather than tarnish it.

I dream often.

I smile often.

Despite unforeseen death, debt and responsibilities,

I am somehow alive.

And despite the weak stream of water in my cold shower,

I am somehow happy.

Instead of:

‘I have baggage, so you can’t expect us to act like a couple’.

You aren’t ashamed to show me to the world.

Instead of:

‘Why don’t we just see where we go from here’.

You are realistically optimistic.

Instead of:

Hiding behind empty promises and Honest-To-God lies.

You are writing me letters and sending me warm vibes through phone calls.

Instead of:

Burying us beneath your figurative insecurities and arrogance,

You smile at me, shake your head, and pose for our picture. 

Instead of:

Sleeping with every girl but me,

You promise fidelity as a three-year old ghost looms honestly in your past.

Instead of:

Taking advantage of my trusting nature and hopeful smiles,

You pull me aside and promise I’m not being ridiculous and that there is no one else.

Instead of:

Comparing me to every other woman.

You look at me like I’m the only other person in the world.

Instead of:

Drying my tears with your right hand and dragging a razor with your left,

You’re holding my waist and begging me to stop.

Instead of:

Brushing me off and asking me to stop crying,

Our dewy cheeks are meeting somewhere in the middle.

Instead of:

Forcing me to bite my tongue and clench my chest,

You’re speaking first and confessing that four-letter word.

Instead of:

Pressuring me into your bed and between your sheets,

You’re hesitating with each kiss and movement, always checking with my spirit before fulfilling your desire.

Instead of:

Slipping away in the night with my money,

You’re buying me sweet small smiles like the nonreciprocating constant dwellings in my past.

Instead of:

Watching me hold back.

You’re pulling me forward.

Instead of:

Watching me question everything and embed each insecurity on my arm,

You’re the sense of comfort I’ve never felt and only dreamed about.

Instead of:

Settling for your habit,

You’re coming out to me.

I never expected to find someone,

Under any amount of time,

And here you are,

Collecting paper bills and plastic promises,

To travel 4,000km

To be at my side again.

Thank you. For what you’ve brought, for the me you’ve seen and for the hopeful future that’s flickering like wind-chimes in a simple spot:

Chiming subtly and always there.

Always chime..

And please be there.

I want to write. I think I will.

I’m thinking about you.

I might write about you.

The strong straight and sculpted weight of your jaw, the careful curves of your thin cheek bones, held tight and flecked with the partial contrast of your laziness and testosterone.

It’s not a beard. I like it.

It’s stubble and it’s small and I like it against my cheek, pressed to my neck and framing your smile.

Without the added grace of white posts, you tend to smile at me a lot.

Your eyes squint at me because you think I’m silly.

Your eyes.

Expressive eyes.

The way you look at me is my favourite part of you.

Like I am the most precious commodity.

The most beautiful woman.

The most stirring soul and able creature.

Like I will slip away like thick fog if you hold too close or wait too long.

You look at me with a wisdom I’ve never witnessed. A knowledge that doesn’t lie with optimistic brutalities or double-edged swords that imitate happiness while prodding at our insides with writhing sadness.

Because we both know this is fleeting, but we both want it to last.

I watched my potential excitement on each knowing tear drop and I possessed every breath while we slept as close as spoons in five hour intervals; as close as two utensils which were sculpted in unison with a similar purpose in mind.

And I will never forget that.

I will never forget you.

That for every lucid moment between dream-world and your-world, I was greeted with the sweet embrace of your arms and the soft presence of your kiss. That our height difference was shortened by my platforms and perfected under the protrusion of your collar bone.

Rarely have I experienced moments that were not sullied under the churning nausea of panic and the constant mask of unease..

But anxiety has never been given the opportunity to squirm between us.

I think we’re too close for that.

Even under the weight of my future beckoning from 4,000km away, we were too close for that.

I saw the waves of the shore before I stepped onto the plane.

I saw such a calm sense of sadness in the similar blue of the irises of the first man who seemingly deserved me as much as I deserved him.

And for that, you are the first.

For me, you are a first.

As per typical fashion and regular pattern in my life:

Your smile sticks on my eyelids when I’m falling asleep,

And there’s a shy yearning that I can recognize and appreciate..

Are you a game-changer?

A month isn’t enough to tell.

Because within four weeks, I’ll be boarding the plane to my new life..

And I wonder if you’ll stay on my eyelids when the Rockies are in my peripherals..

And I wonder if you’ll be on my mind while the sea foams around me.

I am sad.

I look up gifs of animals for hours on end.

Some favourites from the past hour:

My muscles feel like twisting.

My toes want to spread.

I want to write;

But I haven’t got anything to say.

I want to speak;

But there isn’t anything worth mentioning.

My voice is trapped in a glass box,

High-pitched in the best interest of customer service..

And I don’t remember what my laugh sounds like anymore.

Boxed into my alliterations (pleasant, polite, punctual, pleased)

I know that the coast is calling.

And I should be memorizing the stars, the shapes of hills and the shadows of trees

instead of which beep, ring or buzz indicates the machines in need of some company or curse words..

I should be surrounded by sunlight, moonlight and music; misty words and dancing silhouettes of best friends and near strangers; my bright words and dark thoughts and the middle-ground I find in writing.. 

But instead, I type numbers into keyboards, remind seniors of the technological advances they need to become accustomed to and bark orders at the men who think it is unreasonable to pump their own fuel (because what could honestly go wrong when it comes to letting a machine, your gas cap and a limited tank space dictate the presence or accidental over-dose of a highly flammable substance..)

The coast is calling,

But I can’t answer yet.

I watch Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 2,

When Harry is watching Snape’s memories,

And he sees Snape talking to Dumbledore about Lily,

I always burst into tears when Snape says:

‘Always.’ 

Kills me.

Every time.