It’s 4:30 AM in London. Here I am, a quarter of a revolution away, wondering if you’re dreaming. Do the street lights cast long glowing shapes across your walls? How soon will you rise? I wonder if you lay on your side, your cheek contorted where it collides with your pillow. Would you startle at the idea of someone on the other side of the sun’s path wishing to lay there with you?

I wonder if you’ll be off for your walk when I’ve descended into the slumber you’re in now. Traipsing through cow paths among the wild garlic and blackberry bushes. You’ll have your morning coffee while I lay dormant and your day will go on while I am absent. Your life and mine will never collide. That much I am sure of. But there are nights when I check the time and it is 4:30 AM in London and I will wonder if you’re sleeping.

How do you dazzle me so, from the brevity of time in which you’ve captivated my soul? I’ve known for much of my life that I am gullible to the last drop, but am I so easily enthralled? Does it take little more than fair glimpses to ensnare me? You could be everything I detest, in fact you could come dressed as it, and in these present circumstances I might find a way yet to romanticize it. 

I’m lusty. That’s my vice. I toil away in mere fantasies of lovers, in landscapes that I may find myself in. I attach with vicious grip and I feed myself on lore. Perhaps today I will drop in dismay at the heather-ladden cliffs of the Lake District, heavy clouds drooping low. Or maybe my head is lazing out of an open passenger side window in the glowing twilight streets of LA. I’m walking quickly with my head down and my hands shoved in thick pockets in the snowy streets of New York City. 

Always a damsel, never the contented. Even in my daydreams, I live a life swirled with melodramas in which only a devoted suitor can see me through. Sub in the flavor of the week into any of my theatrical sets and I may swoon for hours.

All the world is my fainting chair and at any moment, the vapors might yet overtake me. I’ve always known that I was gullible, and perhaps naive, and practically breathless for great love. But I fall for the men that men could be. Like hermit crabs filling what will yet fit them. I shroud mere mortals in a godly glow and I worship at their feet. Men that I’ve met, men that I’ve seen, and men that may never yet be. I love and I love and I love and I love and I wonder what they dream of at 4:30 AM.