tagRomanceI'm Waiting Here

I'm Waiting Here


I am not the smartest or the bravest person. I am not the tallest inside and many times I find myself running late. I worry about the world and the people in it, and I eat all the things; mostly cake. But I'm a good person, and if that's the only choice I ever manage to keep for the rest of my life, then I can live with that.

Yet, lately it feels like life is simply about clinging onto something, anything to give us a reason to keep going. Even as I sit here typing, I know that my purpose here is driven solely by this eternal reaching, and the cycle of letting go of what I once had. I wonder what happens when I don't want to dance for this theatre anymore.

It has been too long since I've tried to speculate my inner working on the page. I think I let go of the idea that my words were worth the print. Tonight however, I am writing for me. It doesn't matter what anyone has to say about that. Please go on, critique my work, and tell me it is a trashy piece of all the things wrong in the world today. I want to hear your voice.

I look only at the screen as I write, because looking at my body reminds me that I am something more than the letters forming on the screen: Finger tips, clothing, a temperature to this body, and the itch on my left arm. These are the things that help make up for me.

If I'm to be completely honest, there is a lump in my throat, and a tension to my core. These mediocre words are only forming the distraction from the things which I beg reality to release me from. I beg so hard that I even imagine a different ending.

There is knock on my door, which was strange, because everyone was asleep the last time I checked. My grandmother was the only person who could knock on my bedroom door at night, yet she always bellowed out that she was there waiting, and this person was decidedly quiet.

I stare at the door as another quiet few taps across the wood spike a frown of concern over my forehead. However, I stand up and open my bedroom door, because surely it could only be granny. A robber would only knock my door down, and since no one else had entrance to my bedroom door, it could only be her.

I look over at the two mugs, one of which was half filled with tea, and then sigh knowingly. She wouldn't be pleased, but she would have to deal. I slowly move towards my door, preparing for a lecture on the dishes, and turn that rusty looking excuse for a door nob all the way around.

That's when I saw him. Heartbreakingly close, the boy I had always dreamed would come was standing at my door, in my home, staring at me like I knew he would always stare. Now maybe I shouldn't have cried at this moment, but the emotion of seeing his eyes looking down on me once again had just about choked me.

"Hey," he spoke gently, understanding the pained expression across my face. "Hey," I responded with difficulty. He stepped inside my room; I stepped back. He shut the door then turned to look at my nervous figure; I looked at my pink and grey striped slippers. It was Zack.

"I couldn't not come," he spoke in a deeply touching manner, "I know about the thing."

"And you don't exist," I looked at him seriously. I knew this was a dangerous game to play, talking to a man who didn't exist, a figment of my imagination; a mere hope for something permanent.

"I'm here to talk about the thing," he insisted, "you need me."

"I need you to exist," I turned from him and ran tensed fingers through my newly dyed hair. This was the best I had; the only man I could trust was one that my brain had decided to make up for me, no one else. This was my secret.

"You're scared, I know," he placed his hands on my shoulders and drew me towards him. I could not escape the touch of my own sweet imagination. It knew me so well, what can I say.

"You're teasing me by being here," I muttered, "if you really cared about me, then you wouldn't be here," he squeezed my shoulder tightly.

"I want you to know that everything will be okay."

"Everything- will- be- okay?" I stabbed the words back at him as I turned to look at him once more, those dark, dark eyes that reached into my very being and turned my stomach like fairy floss on a god- damned stick, "everything as in what? My life? My body? What about my mind?"

I watched carefully as he swallowed down upon his own concerns at my anger, his lips seeming to draw desire from my own simply by being ever so poised. My eyes flickered to and fro, from him lips to his eyes and back again. Could I deny myself the fantasy?

"You have no control," he stated firmly. Matter of fact; he had the control, he owned my mind in this moment, my every ounce of attention was his toy for play. "You have no fucking idea what this world is about to do for you," he grabbed the side of my shirt and tugged me in closer to him.

I gasped for breath and felt my heart begin a near enough race with my thoughts. Thumping and thinking as this moment intensified, pounding upon the 'fuck-you" reflex my tongue positioned itself to take. I remained silent to this moment waiting for more words to be thrown before me, yet I received a kiss.

I never understood how a face could push so forcefully towards another while leaving the softest of brushings of lips to tenderly fondle upon one another. In every moment I knew this particular kiss was wrong, invisible, and unmistakeably false. Yet there was nothing sweeter than this that could ever chase me down and leave me shooting flags of surrender so helplessly against them.

He let me go, and upon opening my eyes, there was merely my closed door before me. As I had said, it was a dangerous game when you spoke to a man who didn't exist. A mere fragment of a second of bliss can begin the hunger of a famine to last for centuries. Hence, my now sinking heart, no longer afloat the rib cage and veins.

No idea what the world may do for me next? Shall I find and lose yet another love, and plead for more, because life is so grand? I probably would, despite myself. I'm so full of hope that even the next heart break will only guide me towards the healing of my soon-to-be-broke again fixtures.

"You can go if you want," I turned to look at my bed, where he now sat staring once more at my forever grieving stance. Perhaps it was the way he spoke which made me fall for him all at once, in spite of his non-existence, but I didn't want to care. I moved towards him and perched myself on the edge of my bed. His hand began to run back and forth over the sensitive skin of my back.

"I don't want to," I replied to him softly, "this is where I sleep."

"He didn't call to say goodnight either, did he?" Zack asked knowingly. I felt my gut churn as if circling sharks were forming inside there. "You're worried he doesn't love you."

Zack was speaking of my boyfriend, the man who really exists. I didn't want to think about him at this time, but Zack disagreed, he was going to talk about it. I felt his hand graze over the top of mine, like a coat on a cool winter day that kept just the right amount of warmth in it.

"Does it matter?" I asked.

"Sure it does," he responded, "you want to be called. You want to be... held, and cared for... prioritized," he mused. "You're worried he might not be there when you need him."

It was true, I wasn't sure if anyone would be there when I needed them. But tonight I wondered not only that, but if I was a priority over even the smaller things. I wondered if my feelings were being valued, if I was wanted enough that he would fight for me when the world collapsed.

"What do I do, Zack?" I looked up at him but he was then gone. I guess I didn't know what to do.

I made my way back to the seat before my computer and began typing these words. It's useless to ask for advice from the very substance that created the questions. Yet I would never forget his kiss, remembering that such a kiss may one day find its way into my reality. It was the kiss of a person who knew real love, and gave it to me, and I would wait here until it existed.

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