Ode To You

Hello Unknown Love,

I just had my heart broken by another guy, yet another guy who had nothing to give to me, who had nothing to teach me, who was nothing. And just as usual, I'm thinking more about you than him. And I'm angry with him, for playing me. I'm angry with myself for not seeing through him before.

But most of all, I'm angry with you, for not being here.

But I believe in you more than ever now. That you'll come one day, for me. And that you'll be everything all the guys of my past have never been. And maybe I'm supposed to wait for you. And then I wonder what you're doing right now. Do you know I exist? Are you with some other girl, missing something, but not quite able to put your finger on it? You're missing me. Or maybe you're sitting at home tonight, and you're listening to the same songs as me, and you're smiling the same smile I'm smiling right now. Oh, it's going to be so much fun meeting you.

I must confess. I'm not perfect. And I wonder if you'll be able to love me, after a while. In my faded pajamas. When I pull my hair up, between my fingers and pout at mirrors. When I get stupid drunk and sing Mumford & Sons songs on cab rides back home. I wonder if you'll understand why I'm possessive. I hope you'll forgive my silly addictions. I worry sometimes, about what you'll think of me when I cry over something small.

There are certain things I'll expect from you. I won't expect you to pay for dinners and movies. I won't expect expensive presents or surprises. I don't want big celebrations. All I want is honesty, loyalty and more than anything. I want you to live up to what you promise me. Because, I think you should know, I've been hurt before. People I've loved have left me, often without looking back. And before they left me, they broke me. And so, I need to trust you. Because, otherwise, my walls will stay firmly in place, and that's something neither of us will be happy with.

And you can expect the same from me.

So while I file away yet another attempt at trying to find you, only to end up lost, I thought I should write this down. And I know you can't read this, but here it is, for my sake anyway. And also, I'm tired of looking. I'm sitting here, I'm not going anywhere, and I'll wait for you. So hurry up and get here.

Love,

Me.

The Illusion Of Life

What these words don't

show is

the dirt, the damp, and

all the tiny little leaves and insects

that invariably end up on

your pretty handwoven serviettes

and designer wooden tables.

These words neglect

to inform you that

the same dust collects on

the books in their bookshelves too,

that the half-consumed packet

of Digestive biscuits has

its own expiration date,

and the peeled oranges will

attract houseflies, the

wastepaper basket be filled, the

kitchen sink dirtied, the toilet bowl

get stained sooner or later.

Instead they smile at you,

bathing in copious amounts

of sunlight - somehow you

can never make your

living room look as bright

and beautiful, even if

you stripped the windows

bare of curtains -

cocooned in a protective

land of milk and honey.

And we can only stare

and flip the pages, wishing we had

some share in that photographic

fantasy, that developed perfection,

stare and flip the pages,

separating soggy pieces of

cereal from milk that will

turn sour, and clutching at our

jars of honey with crawling ants

around their rims.