I wonder when you started being able to fall asleep without telling me goodnight.
My phone sits, silent, beside me.
It will stay that way for the rest of the day.
Twenty20 / @Aldona_P
I think about carrier pigeons and postcards; I think about telepathy and teleportation.
I force my brain to rewind three hours back to the present, Pacific Standard Time.
The day is only beginning, but it feels as if everything is coming to an end.
But the awareness of change comes from somewhere deep inside all that I am.
It hides in the darkness and runs through my blood.
This is how it has always been.
Twenty20 / @Aldona_P
I wonder when you started being able to fall asleep without telling me goodnight.
How do you not look at the empty space beside you and think of what could be there instead?
It is childish and regressive.
Its everything I have fought against being since I have met you.
What happened to being better?
I thought I was better.
I thought you helped mebebetter.
But every conversation feels like I am talking to an empty house.
I accept the embarrassing silence that greets me and settle in alone, thinking youre not home.
Now the first thing I do when I wake up is think of you and your quiet room.
I want those feelings to overflow the cracks and crevices and leave no room for doubt.
But it is hard because I am hurting and I also want you to feel that, too.
Or maybe that is a poor choice of wording.
I have done this before, where I have come home to a replacement.
I have done this before, where I was the one doing the replacing.
All I want is for us to be on the same page, or somewhere in the same book.
I dont want 3,000 miles to place us on difference shelves or in entirely different libraries.
I need something more than the forgotten memory of a kiss.
I used to dream of meeting you in baggage claim.
I used to dream of the race along the airport floor and the long drive back to your place.
I started tossing around the word love and how it would feel dripping off my tongue.
I started dreaming about a life where I wouldnt leave, not without you.
The Hollywood Hills and LA love songs have nothing to do with whats keeping me here this time around.
The saltwater sweater keeps in the cold; it hides my fraying ends.
I am wondering if I will bring back any souvenirs of my time here other than missed calls.
I have made temporary homes out of bus stops and bedroom floors, friends couches and my car.
You promised a place built out of smiles, but its probably plastered with secrets and lies.
Besides, the carrier pigeons dont know your address; you took my postcard off the wall.
