I am cohabitating with Longing. I refuse to commit long-term. Secretly I am hoping to soon bump into the real thing.
And when I do I’ll come home, swing open the door of my house and declare loudly, “It’s over. It’s not me. It’s you.”
But until then I can’t quite let go of what I have- this longing that drapes itself confidently across my four-poster bed, my antique purple couch, my stitched up mending heart.
She is supple and strong but stretches out lazily as if every month is June.
I watch her.
I take her in, every slight movement that threatens to edge me out,
to push me beyond my repeatedly demarcated lines of what’s acceptable.
Longing can be horrid with boundaries.
It is odd but her presence reminds me to keep alert and open. To pay attention.
She leaves her things carelessly around the house.
The open journal.
The teasing scarf.
The more she takes over the clearer I am on what I work towards, pray towards, love towards.
And there is really a lot to be said for learning to live with her,
for a willingness to tolerate the discomfort, the lazy forcefulness of her.
There is a lot to be said for choosing to share my life space with her
without yet feeling the need to make peace.