A You That Doesn't Exist

A recent journal entry.

I want you to come around the corner and into the room where I sit in a rust toned velvet chair, reading. A nameless you. A you that doesn’t exist. I want your body to fall into mine—for you to squeeze in on the large enough, but too small for two people, chair. I want to feel your skin press against mine. I want to wrap my arm around your shoulder and pull you in closer. I want our atoms to blend though I know that isn’t possible. I want to feel your lips and breath on my neck as you whisper “how is your book?” into my ear. I want to snap my book shut, aggressively, and forget entirely about the bookmark because all I can think about, in that moment, is you. I want the cat to hear us and wake from their nap with a recognizable chirp and jump to the floor, settling into a big stretch—jealous that we are cuddling without them. I want the window light to highlight your irises as you stare into mine, letting me know you feel safe without having to say one word. I want you to nuzzle your head into my neck, so close I can inhale your scent, a smell that gives me explicit and immense pleasure. I want you—but there is no you.