It's a Lonely One
*This was written while listening to this song. I recommend listening to it while reading if you can manage.*
I walk the streets. I love walking. When I pass people walking by, sometimes I forget what the normal trajectory for my hands is. Do I swing them backwards and forwards, opposite arm, opposite leg? Should I swing them forwards and backwards together? Should I just stuff them in my pockets? Damn. I’m wearing a dress. No pockets.
And by the time I have failed to do anything with my hands, the other pedestrians pass me by.
I walk behind a couple. They are talking, looking ahead at the next thing in their lives: another few concrete blocks of sidewalk. I think to myself—no, actually, I think to you—Now if we were here walking downtown in the city, I’d hold your hand. And every so often, I’d look away from the concrete blocks and at you. And if you didn't steal a kiss here or there, I'd steal one for you. But you're not here. At that moment, I wish I had pockets to stuff my idle hands in.
And as I sit reading on the bench at the park, I am engulfed by the book. However, when I look up, I see the park, the dogs, the empty space on my bench... And I think to you, Now if you were here, you could put your head on my lap. When the chapters became too intense, when a character was torn between two tough decisions, I would put the book down and run my fingers through your hair and watch you close your eyes with a smile.
And as I stand in the kitchen, slicing bread and licking the jam off of my fingers in my underwear, I think about you. You could sneak up behind me, brush the messy morning strands of hair behind my ear, and kiss my face….my neck… my everything. And breakfast would have to wait...that is, If you were here. But you’re not. And so I eat the slice of of bread with jam immediately on my own to fill that empty ache inside of me. I turn and stare out the window while leaning my hips against the countertop knowing that no food is going to make that dull feeling within me go away. Then I wonder if my neighbors have spotted me in my underwear yet. I wonder if I should care. I wonder why I don’t.
“Why are you always talking about love?”
“Can’t you be happy on your own?”
“Why are you always looking to fall in love?”
My closest friends in my closest circles ask these questions. Over and over, I defend my heart. I justify my love for love. I am resilient in giving up looking for you. However, I have given up on trying to explain to them that I am perfectly fine alone, but that I am just simply perfectly perfectly fine in love. Except, I don’t tell them that I think of you so often. Why? Because you don’t exist, that’s why; they would think I was even crazier than they already do.
I’m sitting alone on the floor of my bedroom in only a yellow underwear with a bow on the back and a summer green spaghetti strap shirt typing away to James Vincent McMorrow. That’s where I am. Where are you?