Someone told me I was a hopeless romantic

I rarely write sappy stuff, but, hey I needed to do this one...

Perhaps my greatest fear in life is not wasps, 

horses, clowns, or using public restrooms at

night. I think it is the depth of loneliness, the empty

couch cushions and closet. The missing car in

the parking spot, or waking up to an empty bed

everyday of my life. 

There's nothing wrong in admitting it. We're lonely.

There was a woman that I loved, still do, who has every reason

to hate me. It wasn't what you would expect, I think what it was

is that I made her feel alone. 

Or I was an a*****e. That can happen. 

At times I lay wrapped in a sea of black sheets and comforter, and I

go back to thinking she is there spinning a web between my roof and ceiling fan

and given the right push of motivation, she'll weave a rope

and bob down where she'll wrap her arms around my chest and

kiss the side of my cheek and scratch the side of my head.

Or for something realistic, I wish when I came home at

one in the morning after work, I would see her truck parked outside of

my apartment. Or in the spot next to me. I would float to the top floor, my feet

never touching the steps or the carpet as the door slides open

and I shed my retail work skin. I would push the door to my bedroom open

and she would be wrapped in linen on her side.

My home would be clean, because I wanted her to see me as

responsible and organized, my room would be shelved and

placed in minute increments so to remind me

not her, that I had my s**t together, no stacks of dirty clothes

or dirty underwear, bottles of Belgian lager and Mexican beer with

pruned limes in the bottom. The fridge would be a 

home to eggs, bacon, ham, celery, lettuce, cheese, tortillas

goat cheese, steak, chicken legs, taquitos, soda, orange juice, and

milk. Instead of beer, and the occasional slice of honey turkey. 

My life would wrap around her as I rolled against her back my 

chin on rear of her neck, my face in her hair breathing in the field of red

on her head, taking in the fragrance of her shampoo and conditioner one

lungful at a time. My arms around her belly would snake their way

along the border where the state of the sheets and the nation of her skin

meet, and they would creep by the mountains of her breasts

and the ridge of her cleavage. They would would find the peninsula of her

hands, the isthmus of her fingers and they would come down on

them like a thunderstorm, and would wrap around them while she cooed

in her sleep. I would taste her neck and cheek, and I would place my

head against her red hair and sleep. 

Like a child with their stuffed animal, or maybe a cub to 

its momma bear. I would blanket myself with her

security, the notion of her being there made the bills,

the cancer, the stress, the schoolwork, the obstacles of life

just disappear, maybe for a night or an hour or a minute or a moment, but

they would disappear. 

Women. Some of them that is, are the best drug in

the world, however they're harder to kick. 

Reviews

[Emma Berman]

is this the woman with the red hair?

[MOON]

Lovely write love is a drug and the best feeling you captured that perfectly.

[Yellow Butterfly]

You've absorbed the whole essence of what it is to be "in love" and how it should be between ordinary folk. If this is your dream/fantasy I am sure you can make it your reality.



This wasn't sappy.....it was romantic and beautifully penned :O)