When Love Arrives

This morning I picked up his keys instead of mine, took his lightly freckled arms and wrapped them around my waist, kissed his soft lips into the warm glow of the morning. This morning I took my bike from his driveway and took myself pedal by pedal away from his light, took my self back from his welcome grasp, took my eyes and showed them something other than the twinkle in his eye and the loose waves in his hair. I conditioned my ears to detect the cars coming up behind me instead of just his footsteps on the stairs, instead of his complimentary taste in music and the sound of his breath catching beneath his tongue.

This morning I watched a video called When Love Arrives. I nudged spaces in between the lines and fit his wide smile into each metaphor, fit his creases into the lines on their faces, wished our future towards the ending. Wished there would be no ending. Today I find myself taking back each sentence I wrote of sharing, each word of sunsets and each pang of guilt, of lust, of curiosity. Today I am his. Tomorrow I want to be too.

Today I find myself waiting for the eternity of work looming ahead of me. 4 0’clock on until dawn, on until I find a way to bury my ambition, the last three years of my degree, inside burrito wraps and serve them up to strangers, until I find a way to leave my spirit at the door and pack myself up into shallow apologies, small politics of employment. Pack my politics into vague responses, wide smiles, speak louder over the counter, throw undeserving energy into little tasks, over lists and check-boxes, through until 8 o’clock and walk home. Until I get back to myself, and back to him.


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