i’m not supposed to tell you this. that i want to be in love. i’m not supposed to let you know that my bustling friday nights consist of me watching the warrior game from club bed, dress code: jammies. or that i have romantic, home cooked dinners for one. at least no one else complains about my spaghetti squash, and fake mozzarella cheese. that shit tastes good, i don’t care what anybody says.
i look at pictures on instagram of yogi’s in perplexing positions while kissing their boyfriends good morning. or aerial views of two pairs of shoes facing each other. my Louboutins and his wolverwines. Js work too, but you know – we grown now. i miss flowers for nothing. hand holding for something. falling asleep in big, strong arms and making heart shaped egg cups in the morning. turkey bacon for me of course.
honestly? i’m tired. i miss … having someone to miss. and sometimes, the loneliness in my heart is relentless.
but just because i feel this way, it doesn’t mean i’m not gonna continue to be fucking fabulous all by myself.