It’s a reoccurring day dream. We’d have a loft apartment downtown. It’s not a huge apartment but it has huge ceilings and large window panes. We don’t need much space anyway, it’s just us and we travel too much to worry.
I can see myself standing in just a pair of briefs with a mug of tea looking out the large floor to ceiling window pane at the people below. It’s not a Michigan avenue view but it’s still lovely. A quaint little park with flowers painted pastel colors. Young families with children enjoying time on a cozy late spring morning.
And then I’d feel your lips on my neck and your arms envelope me whole. You’d whisper to come back to bed, and I’d make fun of you since it’s almost noon and I don’t want to sleep all day (as appealing as being in bed all day with you would be.) Instead, I’d turn around to kiss you, and tell you I’d already made you breakfast.
We’d have a space just for us. It wouldn’t be a party house as much as we’d have friends over for late night drinks and smokes from time to time. It instead is our space. Our oasis from the chaos of our daily lives. Here we can simply be us. We have no walls, no judgment. I tell you when your being a dick, and you tell me when I’m repeating myself like a broken, annoying record. But then I can tell you my darkest secrets here, I can tell you how the fact you even know my name amazes me, or that when you call me ‘mine’, it makes me want to cry. That you’d even see me amongst so many faces in this world, it’s beautifully terrifying. I see how amazing you are and I want the whole world to see it. Alas, in that desire to share I also fear losing you. That someone might tell you how amazing you are in a more eloquent way then I ever could.
Cozy coffee shops where we sit outside, people watching, smoking and making up what the passerby’s stories are (“Clearly he’s a struggling writer with a cocaine addiction but dreams of working in a 3rd world country” , “She’s a gold digger who’s having an affair with a guy who’s totally broke yet he’s the only man she’s ever really loved”). We’d visit our friends resting in milk cartons and on shelves in record stores. I’d stock up on used books to bring on tour and softly read to you in bed. I fall asleep on your shoulder when we take the L home. The proceedings of the evening are those we keep just for us.
We fall apart just to fall back together again from time to time. But it all makes sense. Whether I’m sharing the stage with you, my home, or my heart. We call it by it’s rightful name. Love. This is love.
Again, this is just a reoccurring day dream…
