I’m crying because…I wish I could come home to you in this place, just us and our sweet, furry companions. I imagine us unwinding after our long days, savoring the simple joys we’d worked so hard to build- cooking a meal together from the tomatoes and peppers I picked up at the farm stand down the road, paid for with what I earned working at the library in town. We stand beneath the twinkle lights in the kitchen—only half the bulbs working—listening to music and chopping vegetables as the sky shifts from soft pinks to deep, soothing indigo. You then put on a rowdy, banter-filled comedy podcast. You think I’m judging, but truly, it delights me to see your face light up the way it does so well, especially after a long day. You deserve to just relax and laugh along with the hosts crude and self deprecating humor, as ridiculous as that sounds.
Afterwards I picture you telling me about your day, about that wild, hyperactive dog that none of your coworkers understand the way you do.
But then, I remember…this life I’m dreaming of isn’t real.
Because I’ll always want to give whole pieces of myself to you, and you'll always want to fuck other women. You’ll call them sweetheart, trail your touch across their skin, blow smoke on their abdomen. You’re a lover to many; it’s just who you are. And I truly believe that’s nothing to be ashamed of. But it still doesn’t take away the ache of realizing I’ll never be enough to be the only one who holds you…or this dream.
