To the man who can’t stop searching…

We met where the moon twirls with the mist…the place the loneliest of hearts search for one another.

I’m confident I saw you first, the way your olive skin burned under the moonlight. Your eyes were skimming like pebbles across a pond, stopping once they locked with mine.

I cannot recall who took the first step, but your breathing corrupted my ability to think.

I don’t want to blame the enchanting vision of lights the constellations created around us.

I believe it was your words, your vulnerability that you revealed so easily that made me fall so hard.

I never went back to that magical spot because I didn’t have to…lying in your arms became my new favorite location.

Someone mentioned that they had seen you back where the moon twirls with the mist, your eyes grazing your options.

Your open ended search is breaking my heart and you have no idea.

My heart is heavy knowing I cannot express that I know you haven’t stopped searching, that you’re not content with what you found.

It hurts to regret locking eyes with you in the drunken air that night.

Were you just curious about what else the navy blanket of stars could offer you?

Part of me desperately wants to ask you why you still frequent the spot where the moon twirls with the mist.

Are you not aware that every breath caught, every I miss you whispered, every heartbeat skipped has now been deemed meaningless?

If this is your character flaw, you belong with the greatest of all tragic heroes—with the men who have lost their way because they refused to escape themselves—they refused to love anyone but themselves.

Just so you know

If you ever get tired of seeing the world

of living out of a bag

I have a place you might like to call home

It’s not glamorous

It’s right next door to some cheap take aways

But it has a certain charm

like on Sundays when all I do is watch cartoons

and let the couch engulf my body with my cup of coffee

On drunken Friday nights, it’s a sanctuary

It’s the room that keeps spinning

Monday through Friday, it’s a scheduled escape between work.

Always ready with lunch, always welcoming

There’s no bell service, nothing to sight see,

no chocolate on your pillow every night

But there’s this girl who’s crazy about you

who wants to quench your search for adventure

who wants to hear all about your travels,

who wants you to look her in the eyes and

say, “It feels so good to be back.”

The kiss I miss the most

I wanted to kiss you goodbye, but I didn’t. I wanted to jump out of the car and chase after you in the airport, the way they do in cheesy love films, but I didn’t. I wanted to scream, “Hey, you’re fucking amazing and I think I’m going to miss you more than I should!” but I didn’t. Last night, I wanted to fall asleep in your arms but I feared how sad and empty my bed would feel all the other nights I’d have to sleep alone, so I all but pushed you out of my room. I wanted you to stop doing everything right so that I wouldn’t find a reason to miss you. But you embraced my crazy obsession with hockey, you found my loud family amusing and they were just enchanted to meet you. You somehow survived my restless shopping. You closed your eyes when you kissed me and your touch made me melt.

So if the Tardis does exist, and I get my pick of any time and space, my heart is set on October 10, 2011—9:51AM—O’Hare Airport. Before I have the chance to convince myself out of it, I’ll slam the car door and run after you. I’ll panic a bit as I search for you among the other travelers, but you won’t have gone far. And I’ll find your tall frame perhaps fumbling with your luggage, or maybe you’re asking a worker for help. You’ll stop what you’re doing when you’ve realized I have followed you inside and you’ll give me that charming grin, the same one you give me whenever I make fun of your accent. You’ll start to say, “Wha-?” but I won’t let you finish because all I’ll want to do is stand on my tip toes, wrap my arms around you one last time, and feel your lips on mine…because I should have kissed you goodbye, but I didn’t.

Writing to this right now because it just feels good.

To do list

So I figured if I made this list public, maybe I’d have more pressure to actually get it accomplished.  If anyone has any tips on the best way to get to these, I’d appreciate it! By August 2012, I would like to do at least one of the following things:

-Go on tour with a band and be their merch girl and write about everything.

-Live somewhere in the UK and write about everything.

-Get my nephew to meet his idol, Patrick Kane.

-Self publish the book I have been working on for forever.

-Eat at Chuck Hughes’ restaurant and write about it.

It’s all about the word play

Here’s the thing. I never stopped writing about you, and it’s not because I miss you and need to keep you alive through words. It’s really not that magical at all…you knew what you were getting yourself into the minute you realized you loved a writer. And just to be sure, I reminded you that everything you said or did was fair game for me to use as I wanted. And as much as I try to mask some of the things we experienced through other characters and different story lines, I need everyone to know one thing: I love Jason Mraz. I fucking love Mr. A to Z. And you and me were a long running lazy catastrophe. I blame it on me instantly agreeing with you when you said that you hated him…because he reminded you too much of her, and I wanted you and me to happen so much that if there was something I could hate with you, I wanted apart of it. Now I’m left with four years of Jason Mraz goodness to dig up and discover. So if this was the clincher, the one thing that really sealed the deal for you—the fact that I hated Jason Mraz, I will make time travel happen and drive a Jason Mraz stake through my heart.