The weekend has elapsed, though I can’t halt from pining for a certain something that never really was.
I’m yearning for a place that doesn’t quite exist, at least not in this realm. It is solely and exclusively reserved for that of another, a dimension that resides deep within the confides of my mind.
Is it so disastrous, so dangerous that I crave such a place?
That I ache and elect to belong with my imagination rather than my very own reality? Especially when this existence is somewhat bleak? And dare I say it, destined to be so?
I am homesick for a place I am not sure exists. One where my heart is full. My body loved. And my soul understood.
Rather than clamouring and attempting to rein in my own emotions last weekend I would have much preferred my fantasy world over what was. I would have selected to lay there with him, tangled in white egyptian cotton sheets and a wall of glass overlooking a furious ocean instead of the bitter tiled floor I lay slumped on.
I wanted that comfort and serenity that could only come from his loving embrace. And I’d rather the sinuous sounds of his breathing, the cascading movements of his bare chest rising then falling, synchronizing with the waves crashing below us over my own panicked sobs.
And of course I’d rather that the cause of my heart quickening and my breathing becoming recklessly irregular was simply by having him in such close proximity and not because I was suffering another onslaught of panic attacks.