My life is not so much a journey; it's more like a road trip to Vegas. Starts with a book, a wild heart on a bus, reading it felt like making love to someone. I'm never expecting you. I looked for you in the open air, down side streets, the vodka filled bottles of night clubs and in convenience store parking lots. As the road grew, I found my hopes unraveled. Diminished. Clinging to every moment of unemotional contention that passes me by. Deriving from everyone who is willing to offer me.
"Perhaps when we find ourselves wanting everything, it is because we are dangerously close to wanting nothing."
There are numerous incomplete images of you etched in my head. Your bare back facing me when I wake up every morning. Your soft kisses on my half smiles. Your baby face when you come home late only to find me waiting. The feeling of how it would scare me when you'd move to another continent for work. The way you'd keep moving my hair off my face and look straight into my eyes. The days and days we'd lay entwined in the bed, planning our future together. How I'd wish I could tell you one more time of how deeply I was in love with you, whatever that meant. There has been an endless quest of getting to know you, where you belong, who you are. Every time I take a step forward, the distance keeps growing more. Projections of more like looking for myself.
You're like the frost of the first winter morning. My existence is nothing but unknown to you and I hold on to my chest like there is something in there worth keeping. You're a burning building and I'm on the opposite side of the street holding an empty box of matches. It may look like I've got it all together but I've only learned where the glue holds best, to keep the thoughts of never finding you from breaking my heart. I'm never really certain if it looking for you is actually a mistake, so I do it again to be sure.