I'd Rather Wake Up Beside You

They say home is where the heart is. If that is true, then my home stands five-foot-eight. She has radiant brown hair and her windows to her soul are a devastating shade of blue with artistic strokes of green that swallow her pupils of unfathomable depth. You can lose yourself in them if you really tried. My home is elusive, relentless, and wildly misunderstood. She, like me, is broken, and her fragmented parts make me whole. She is torn and a mess, such a beautiful mess. She pushes me away and pulls me in and never knows how delicate her chaos is. She always seems within reach, yet she is always an inch too far. She fears everything and nothing. Her tempting appearance clashes with her stern demeanor. She is endless grace masked by unyielding assertiveness. Her hardships left her a little rough around the edges, but beneath her surface, she is gooey like molten glass. She walks the aisle with her demons, but she is functioning. She is hay in a needle stack. She prefers to blend in, but she is all I see. She is a walking contradiction, and I feel incompetent with words when I attempt to describe her. But, to me, she is indescribable. She needs to be experienced; she is an experience.

She is a force to be reckoned with. She needs no introduction. She makes others question my sanity, but has me grounded in reality. She cherishes my flaws, and her flaws make me love her instead of like her. She says something stupid like she misses me and I look for a one-way flight. She makes me note in my phone that November 9th was the best night of my life. She makes December 27th my least favorite day of the year. Her kisses, even when she is sick, taste better than wine. She makes me wish bite marks would turn into tattoos. She makes chess only fun on a rooftop. She makes howling at the moon not embarrassing. She makes driving unbearable unless my hand is on her thigh. She makes me crave the taste of Pomegranate ChapStick. She used to work at an ice cream shop and now she wears scrubs. She shares my passion for learning and even rivals it. She makes sitting in silence feel comfortable. She makes sleeping alone feel really alone. When I am stressed, my memory of her is my safe haven. She makes reading old texts feel like I am chewing my stomach. She makes me feel like I am floating while simultaneously slamming me into the ground with a force that is beyond gravity. She makes laughter feel like my native language. She makes me believe her when she says, "Clean slate then holy smokes. Be ready." She makes me wonder what she keeps inside. She makes me wish I was fluent in her unspoken words. She makes me feel like I should take action, but makes me understand that inaction is what she needs right now. I would forget my name if it meant learning hers. I hope she knows that between "Hello" and "Until next time", that there was a great deal of love. She makes me scorn the world for interrupting what we had going. She makes me trust that the long road has a purpose. She makes me hate what caused her trauma, and makes me jealous of what makes her smile. She is never on time, but finds a way to slow it down. She gets frustrated easily. She hangs up the phone sometimes. She is not perfect, but I swear she is perfect for me. Her well-being is intrinsically connected to my own. If she suffers, then I suffer. If she accomplishes something, then I am vicariously proud. She motivates me to be the best version of myself. She makes me think a plane in the sky is the universe telling me to move already. She makes me dread seeing black Toyota Corollas. She makes me turn down different roads to avoid seeing the places I went with her. She makes a trip to Wal-Mart looking for air fresheners feel like an international vacation. Her lips make me love red lights. She makes me feel as if every love song was written about us. She makes reading her to sleep feel like my calling in life. She makes 3 A.M. the most awake I have ever felt. She makes lying down in a cramped car feel like a California King. She makes sitting on the same side of a booth feel so right. She makes losing in air hockey feel like I won an Olympic gold medal. She makes me wish helping her roller-skate backwards could be my profession. She makes being introverted feel gregarious. I am in love with her. She makes me live life and not simply exist. If I could have one superpower, it would be teleportation just so I could be with her right now. Even though I think astrology is nonsense, she makes me wish Cancer and Sagittarius was a perfect match. She makes me wonder if I do it for her the same way she does it for me. She makes twenty-seven hundred miles feel like a million. She makes Santa Monica feel empty when she walks towards me. She makes me think that yellow is a pretty color. Her voice is the song that is stuck in my head. She pollutes the air I breathe with the smog that her absence leaves behind. If I catch a scent that reminds me of her, my day is instantly ruined. If I see a picture of her, I feel homesick. She makes missing her the second she leaves not feel clingy. She makes a day without her feel like an entire season. She makes my heartbeat roar like thunder. The sight of her driving away makes me realize my life is not my own anymore. She makes me loathe American Airlines for letting her on that flight. My memories of her would win an Oscar. She makes waking up without her feel like a near-death experience. Her name is the sixth love language. Her laugh fondles my mind with its intricacies and her smile fills me up with seeping bliss. I want to hold her hand forever. I want her to lay in my arms as she hovers in the atmosphere of my deep, abiding affection. I want to be with her. She permeates my every thought and weaves her way into my gut and becomes my instinct. She taught me that love is surrendering myself without expecting it back. She taught me that love is giving someone the ability to shatter you, but trusting them not to. Loving her is like wearing a fuzzy straightjacket around my heart.

She is my home. Maybe one day I will be hers.