I
want to be mad at you. I know it sounds
strange, but I want the fights. Bring on the
despair and disappointment in spite of the love that exists. My brain and my heart don’t agree. It ends up in hissy fits, and they’re
constantly pissed. But both say they found
you first. In fact, they insist. So I guess
you’ve narrowed that rift. With you is
where I want to be when midlife crisis hits. That
is my plight, and my plight is this: my heart pounds in my chest and logic bares its
fists, but they both ask for the infinite. I
want you. That’s a life without limits. I want the less-than-desirable wedding and the
rainy camping trips. The failed years of
teaching the dog to do tricks. The house with
that godamned picket fence. The economical
slips and the hopelessly purchased lottery tickets. And
when the cake falls and the priest doesn’t show, I’ll know that our love has
nowhere to go except forever to grow, grow, grow.
I
miss you so much right now and I don’t know what to do about it. I want to get on the roof and shout it and see how
the neighbors feel about it. I don’t
know how many kilometers away you are, but I wonder how long it would take me to walk that
far. And according to my friends’
calculations, I would spend three months in a car for you.
I would do that. I would do
that just to stop hearing your voice in the wind. To
stop seeing you trapped in sand castles as the ocean approaches them. To stop finding you lying in bed with me, waking
and knowing it couldn’t have been. I
was wishing on my fingertips when I thought I could spend this time away from you. I think that I do things that I don’t have to
do to find out if my feelings are true and they are, for you. Just for you.
