Falling In Love? Only On Days Ending In Y.
A friend texted me out of the blue last week and asked if I ever feel like I want to be in love with someone other than myself. I had to chuckle at the last part because I’m sure he assumed he would get some soapbox I-love-myself-and-that’s-all-that-matters answer if he didn’t add it to the end.
Without missing a beat, I immediately responded, “Only on days that end in Y.”
And it’s true.
I want to be in love so badly.
I want to wake up next to my best friend, sip coffee on the patio while listening to the birds chirp on Saturday mornings, and chase each other with squirt guns in the fresh cut grass on hot summer days.
I want to cry on their shoulder while watching classic black and white movies, and I want to be the first person they call when they’ve had a bad day.
I want to speak in secret codes, reference inappropriate jokes using memories that only we would understand, and call each other the most absurd nicknames when we are in the privacy of our own home.
I want to travel the world with them; to another country, another city, or maybe even just another room. I want to take mini vacations to the grocery store and hold hands the whole way home.
I want to fall asleep to the sound of their heartbeat and wake up to the tickle of their eyelashes fluttering on my back — stuck in the moment between being sound asleep and wide awake, one of my favorite places to be.
I want to finally love someone I’m scared to lose, instead of losing someone I’m scared to love.
I want to memorize their freckles, add depth to their laugh lines, and always give them a reason to want to come home. I want to slow dance in the kitchen while sipping red wine and shoot whiskey on the weekends when we just need a good time. I want to be the best buzz he’s ever felt, his favorite hello and hardest goodbye. I want to find something worth fighting for.
I want to find someone who knows what he has before I’m gone, sees the beating heart hiding behind concrete walls, and views all of my flaws and scars and broken pieces as stained glass windows for my light to pour out of. I want to find someone who isn’t afraid to make friends with the monsters in my mind or take me on a journey to even the dustiest corners of his soul.
I want someone who wants all of me — every tiny piece — all of my hopes and dreams and flaws and insecurities, all of my demons and mistakes and haunted memories, all of my love that I’ve kept locked away, saved for the day that I finally found what I was looking for.
I want to save that love until the moment I find him. And once I find him, I want nothing more than to give it all away.
I could go on forever about all of the things I hope to find within the puzzle piece person that fits so perfectly alongside all of my jagged edges. The yin to my yang, the happy ending to my story, the answer to all of the questions I was too scared to ask.
I could tell you about how I’ve written him letters and prayed for him to find me when times got really rough, and then secretly thanked him for not showing up yet simply for the fact that I proved to myself that I could get through it alone.
I could tell you that I get scared sometimes that I’ll never find what I’m looking for. That maybe I live in a magical land within my mind, dreaming up someone who doesn’t even exist. That maybe my standards are too high and my inner romantic is too hopeless and all of the days I’ve spent with my head in the clouds, stuck in a daydream are just that — a dream.
And if that’s the case, then so be it. I’ll live there happily, peacefully, comfortably.
I’ll pack my realistic bags filled with realistic goals, stuff my suitcase self with thoughts and ideas and dreams and plans,
and I’ll carry on, the way I always do.
All the while wondering,
If there’s a starry-eyed boy that also lives in this fairy-tale world,
Sitting in his kitchen,
Fingers tapping lightly on his keyboard,
Texting his mom,
And thinking about me.