The order may vary, but every day I wake up and do the exact same things. I check my phone, brush my teeth, ready the tea kettle, and moisturize my skin. I turn on the box with the sounds and moving pictures, exercise, stare at the screen made for work, and stare at the screen made for fun. I make oatmeal, pluck one of my guitars, and try finding delight in the greenery just beyond my windows. There are variations in this routine of course. Some days I deep condition my hair. Other days I treat myself with dinner dropped off by a total stranger. I cobble together outfits and staging to take eccentric self-portraits, and pretend to be heroes as I astral project into video games. But, on the whole, I am a creature of habit.
There’s a scene in The Lion King when Mufasa sits with Simba as the dawn breaks in the animal kingdom, and the father explains to his heir that the sun’s rays determine their ownership; illuminating exactly what they have been given. I think of this every time the light pierces through my home, bathing gold all with which I’ve been blessed. Mine is not a domain gained through conquest. There is no cherub with a flaming sword guarding its entrance. I do not hold it in an iron grip. The three bedrooms and two bathrooms in my realm are quiet. It’s a land with plants on every floor, and where long showers are encouraged. Books are always free to immigrate, and the dining room remains immaculately set, ready for company. It is a place that has brought me inexplicable peace, inspiring prayer upon my comings and goings. It’s curated to fit my every desire, creating spaces in which I am able to adore and be adored. I’m young, unmarried, and eager to be selfish in the principality to which I alone have sworn my fealty. I am content with all I have, and nothing could take away from that. Yet there is another version of myself, one that exists just beyond the veil, where I am not the only occupant of this house. In that reality, you are there.
You cook and I do the dishes. We both sleep in on Sundays, waking up to make brunch and then clean. I do my writing, you paint, and neither of us says a word for an hour or so as the record player sings. You always go to bed first, making sure to turn on the salt lamp because you like a bit of a nightlight. You sleep on the left, me on the right, and although we’re not “cuddlers” per se, we always seem to wake up with at least our fingers intwined. You check the mail because you know how much I worry about germs, and I make you coffee, even though I never have a cup myself.
This rose-colored dimension is one where I am cradled in all the ways in which I cannot hold myself. I dream of you coming up behind me and softly wrapping your arms around my torso as I shave. I leave you poems in the steam of the bathroom mirror, and you quietly hum in my ear when I’m sick. I fantasize about Netflix playing, you draping yourself across the couch, laying your head in my lap and, even after all this time, my heart skipping a beat as I trace your spine. I yearn for all of the moments in which a soul might be made saccharine.
There are echoes of you, whoever you are, in this house already. You exist between blinks, with me catching nothing more than the flicker of your shadow just before it fades. Waking up in the dead of night because I think I’ve heard your voice. I even see you in public, and if not you, perhaps your prototype.
I run through the scenarios in my head at the organic market. I push the cart while you carry the grocery list. I make sure we stick to the staples, while you sneak in dried mangos and Dutch cookies that you know I will begrudgingly devour. On Saturdays we choose a novel for each other at the library, you find fresh bread at your favorite bakery, and I buy flowers from a local farm. You exist in every conceivable facet of my would-be life.
There is an undercurrent of longing that exists at the very core of my being. I am built to yearn. I ache when friends graze my hand while passing me my phone. My spirit shifts as the Starbucks barista holds my gaze for a bit too long. I’m convinced that, if tested, my cardiac output would indicate that my heart is in a state of near-constant overdrive. I have endured seasons of drought and seasons of harvest, waiting patiently as I ripened, gently (and not so gently) seeking fingers that would reach out to pluck me from the vine. There is a bone-deep hunger that rears its head, often put to bed with a walk outside or a rewatch of my favorite TV show. But there is another thirst, Sahara-dry, that can only be satisfied by romance. It doesn’t keep me up at night, no, quite the opposite. It fills my head as I drift off to sleep, and then permeates the fabric of my dreams. Then I wake up, head over heels, and start the process all over again. Mesmerized by the idea of two spoons in one pint of ice cream. Not glancing, but aware of the space on the other half of the kitchen. Mindful of the dinners for one. The cravings aren’t tinged with sadness, but rather, anticipation. I am hopeful and eager to do the laundry and hold the doors and find every single incarnation of myself that adores you.
My appetite for tenderness is insatiable. And I will have my fill.
