I don’t know why, but right now strangers’ beds are more welcoming than my own front door.
And, I’m afraid of the sting of the shower head because I’m not ready to let go of the scent of you on my skin.
And, I had this conversation with myself, or was it with the universe, or was it with you?
“What do you want from this? What do you need from me?”
And I thought,
“I don’t want anything, not from you. I want to love you and appreciate you for what you are.
“And, if you are a lesson sent to me I want to wait you out and learn what you’re teaching.”
And I believe people are sent to us, or us to them, for a reason, and I’ll sit here a while longer, awaiting ours.
And, Moments.
I keep thinking about these Moments. The divine ones, sent from somewhere, maybe mundane but cemented in my mind.
And I replay them, looking for clues, searching for meaning.
And… maybe I’m projecting.
Like when you so gingerly cupped the top of my skull to keep it from hitting the headboard.
Because sure, maybe you were my south pole at that moment,
and, maybe sweat pooled wherever skin met with skin,
and, maybe my knuckles were white from clawing at your chest,
but, it was your gentle hand atop my head that made my heart ache.
These Moments.
And, I look back at others:
Being hugged goodbye in the morning instead of kissed.
Sleeping in your bed for nights on end before our lips actually touched, mine longing to be held. I knew then everything I needed to but, reliably, contracted, hoping this piece of coal might finally be the one that submits into diamond.
And, I knew then, when I had to be the one to kiss you, that it would always be like this.
That I would always be the one taking care of things when my soul desperately clung to being looked after.
Why did I stay then?
I’ve been trying to tell my sister for eight years.
Why did I stay?
And all these nights:
middle-of-the-nights,
leaving before-the-nights,
nights that are disrupted by morning…
they’re just darkness trying to fill darkness, starlight trying to fill a hole that I can’t work out the shape of.
And, I’m nostalgic for something I can’t understand, looking for a place I’ve never been but surely it must be home and I’ll just know when i find it.
And, maybe that’s why finding homes in strangers is so easy.
To fill them with a story that I’ve made up, the one I need to hear but never hear, the one that doesn’t exist.
Because skin on skin feels so good when you haven’t learnt how to get under my skin yet.
And, these sacred morsels of moments that you feed me are enough to sustain me, at least for tonight.
At least for the drive home.
At least for the walk to my car.
At least long enough to reach the door and pray to someone, something, that you won’t open it back up to see me crouched there, buckled under the weight of the world, with movie-star tears rolling down my cheeks.