This is Not Real
You and I are very real. When I put my mouth on yours or you put your hand on my back, the electricity between our skin lets me know that this is not a dream. But we don’t exist in real time. We dance at the edges of Earth in some kind of fantasy land, between convenience and familiarity.
We keep finding each other in these corners of time where nobody exists but us. And it feels good. the moment is always warm even when we’re awkwardly navigating our past and still curious about the future. Notice I said “the future” and not “our future.” Because I’ve figured out that we are too married to our dreams to make sufficient space for each other. I want to be a writer and put all the things I’m afraid to say into books people read on trains and airplanes, or on buses to their night jobs. I want people to escape with me and see themselves in the pages. I want them to come up to me in the street and tell me which chapter made them come alive or which chapter made them cry the hardest. I want to chase the stories. I want to hide behind the words. I want to write without consequence.
And you want to travel the world, without me. You want to chase success and build a legacy. You want your name to mean something. You want women to fawn over you because you have a big ____ and a beautiful smile. You want to be remembered. You want to be seen. You want to be a god amongst men. We don’t fit like puzzle pieces unless we’re naked. But yet, we still crawl back to each other, unsure how we got there, skeptical that we’ll get anywhere far and somehow still trying to enjoy the space in which our breaths meet on hotel pillows.
And still, I love you with a depth the ocean would be jealous of. I fall into you, I float above your skin. I melt into you, over and over again. Even if we never meet again, being able to love you this much when we do is more than I deserve.