On the Mismatch

by HelluvaGirl

I feel it now.

I’ve been feeling it the past months; yet only now I know the words for it.

When a stranger at a spa gave me a massage, I wanted to gasp I love you. When daughter caressed my head, I was so weakened by the tenderness, that I knew: I need it already, that spring in the jungle, that nature thing, that breakfast in bed I didn’t make.

I guess now I understand what my girlfriend meant right before my heavy step towards loneliness: the singletons’ market is horrible over thirties; you don’t wanna be here.

I guess loneliness is a friend only when you want it.

I have someone to caress me with their words. It’s their hands and their life that I want to try on.

And the beautiful part once again is that I’m quite patiently observing the mismatch between my wishes and my days.

You see, love does not require a certain kind of object, if love is there at all. Love is not a rockstar with a rider: if it is there, it makes sense out of everything, regardless of the form, purpose and interrelations.

Gotta practice.

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