Always lusting, I find myself in small hours draped over the couch, head warm and swimming with thoughts of something that feels foreign and familiar. Swooning during the dying of summer over the notion of 60 degree days. Yearning during close quarters of my uninhibited freedom. A hankering during a quiet evening for those sauvignon soaked moments of cracking chemical reactions between two small bodies tucked into a fleet of tall buildings.
In moments of heightened revelry I find myself longing to flee. To leave while the story is lovely and ripe, before anything can pull me from the sheer perfection of it. I dream of endings that could be because I never have to know how the curtains truly may have closed.
I pine away for that feeling that overtakes you once you’ve survived a big scary thing. That unstoppable energy that dissipates anything unsavory and restores your life force. A long drive with the windows down when the air is cold enough to chill you. A new favorite song played for the first time in a car. The reassurance of your heart’s most current truest love.
No amount of sleep or caffeine or stimulants will ever make life more rich, more present, more lively than these small, significant moments that make our blood warm. Nothing found in a bottle or derived in a laboratory could ever compare to this thing that can’t be predicted or replicated. This thing that swirls colorlessly through the air, blown in on a night when the conditions are just right, and everything glows, for just a moment.