Driving down the road I'm living 10 years from now. I pass vacant townhouses that will be lit up one day. I'm not sad, but this is not happiness. All the noise around me starts to fade away; from this position the steering wheel is my only confidant, my best friend. The rear view mirror is my only audience.
I take the long way home- it used to be that there was no time to think, and now I'm wearing holes in my socks from running circles in my brain.
I can see our bedroom, and the sheets that we sleep in. It’s winter still, so the flannel drapes against the carpet, the comforter creates mountainous waves and under our bed sits a black leather hat box.
Pale pink satin lines the inside; holding crumpled yellowing pages and envelopes with my name on them. The addresses vary but the pages are all the same- they keep me awake at night promising adventure, romance, the possibility of being somewhere besides here. And I find myself clinging to a life you have no knowledge of.
I listen to the stairs as I climb slowly, my feet sinking with each step & I feel weak by the time I reach your face. Cupped in my hands I can feel the coarse hairs of your beard finally grown in completely- instead of commenting on your victory, I'm lost trying to convince you that I'm really here with a kiss.