Letters to My Future Lover

Meh, well today wasn’t so bad

the disease is getting to me, but I suppose that is how it is when you first get a diagnosis.  By the time we link up, though, this should be old news and the annoying late night crying spells should have worn off….at least the one’s related to the whole ‘no-bread thing’ I am sure there will still be the general ones.  I am really hoping you’re worth your weight in potatoes, because I love potatoes and because I am lying in bed typing this right now and I just gotta say all this space? this is clutch, I can kick out my legs, make a bed angel, toss, turn, fart all of this is great and I am kinda feeling like you’re gonna cramp my pm style…

Yea…so about that whole ‘not being here yet’ business, it’s getting kind of old.  Do I need to know you to want you? Do I need to have met you to miss you? because…there is sometimes this aching and not in an annoying misogynistic rom com chick flick story trope where I can never truly be happy no matter how successful I am until some oafish knuckle dragger shows me how great life can be with the help of his magical cock, but more of a….you know when you get bit by a mosquito and then you REALLY want to scratch it, so you do and then it begins to sting.  So you ignore it, it gets much less annoying, but there is always this small urge to scratch away that dull throb under your skin.  That’s what missing you is like.  Like when I scratch my arm without lifting my sleeve first and then just feeling the dull dab of my digits and realizing I wanted satisfaction, but I only bruised myself

These are all dark

 Listen I want you the way I want that greasy garlic sauce that comes with the Papa Johns,

The way I’ve always wanted to try a Krabby Patty 

The way I want a new tattoo, I’m not excited for the pain but I know that’s a part of it, 

The way I want the timer on the microwave warming my pasta to go off during the commercial break so I don’t have to stand in the space between the living room and kitchen to watch my show because the bottom of the door frame leaves weird imprints on my bare feet  

The way when I take the bowl from the microwave I want it to be warm, but not so hot it burns my fingers and I have to pull my sleeves over my hands or carry it in the clothed crook of my arm

The way I want everything I’ve ever wanted, but know those might not be the things that I need 

I’m trying to make sure I’m not scared when you come.  Have we already met before? Are you already past the threshold? Is the call really coming from inside the house? I always do this thing where I like someone and I’m really digging them and then they start to like me, or I get the sense they do and the feelings disappear. A’s quickly as they came.  It bites.  I’ve been like this as long as I can remember.  Broken.  There is a part of me that is so afraid of being seen, of being known that I give up.  I count myself out.  I don’t let it bloom.  Please don’t mistake my transparency for ease.  I know myself well, I’ve been here a long time.  I hope when we hold hands I’ll be able to let the weight of your palm rest fully in mine.  I hope you don’t need to heal me- I’d like to do that on my own.  


I’m not sure there’s only one of you- I’m evolving all the time and I’m not sure idea of a singular me and a singular you makes much sense anymore.  We will see.  Thank you for your patience, who knows how long it will be.  Maybe days, maybe years, decades even.  Of course- time isn’t real so whats the difference between an eternity and an instant. See you when you get here,  I’ll leave the light on for you.   


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