like the pot calling the kettle black.

i wake up in an empty bed, before i can be disappointed you stick your head into the open doorway, pulling a hoodie on you smile and tell me to do the same. “come out when you’re up beautiful.” i pull on a sweater and wander clumsily through our bare single room apartment. youre sitting on the patio smoking a cigarette, listening to gods bathroom floor, i realize you’ve got breakfast laid out for only me. i sit and eat, thanking you when i finish. you tug my chair closer to you, until we’re facing one another both sitting indian style. i press my nose into yours and kiss you, smiling. we spend the day climbing trees, you allow me to climb onto your shoulders to be able to sit where you plan to, and when i push my torso upwards, you say “i’ll meet you up there!” 

these dreams are back. dreams of these inebriatingly peaceful times with a simple spirited companion. and thus, my inability to captivate comes back to me in a rush of discomfort. feeling mismatched again. the little wanderer that’s been tamed by reality. its nauseating. i see myself in makeup, accessories, coiffed hair, my work name tag. i long for my bare feet, dirty hair, tan skin, and bruised shins. since when is my reality money? since when is love what is easy? i think of where i am right now, who i’m becoming and the anxiety expands beneath my ribcage. i need adventure. i need someone to climb and smoke and shoot shit and make art with. i feel so alone surrounded by everyone, it’s miserable. id love someone to show up and just say “get in the car, lets go.” and show me new places, take me exploring. i need to discover something more than this right now. i need to stop dreaming of whoever the fuck you are.