with all the commuting in on/off chicago rain and airport delays and general mad uncomfortableness over a span of only a few days, i’ve come to the conclusion that the dream isn’t for mister or miss right to love you despite the morning bed head or in the middle of a nothing-to-wear-today meltdown. perhaps the dream is for a love to surpass airplane stank and all that comes with it.
let’s face it, sometimes your hair and makeup might even look better the morning after [getting up from bed]. you might even convince yourself you look hotter. but spend even 5 hours on a plane and your self-conscious to the point where you feel one whiff of you and someone’ll think you belong in a zoo (how’s that for sexy?). scientifically you get dehydrated, and somehow that dehydration surfaces to something that can be physically observed by any and all. chappy lips and maybe even swollen feet become your tiara.
so in your head it goes: how can somebody possibly want to kiss me? like, ever?
but then somebody does. a consuming, emotional kiss. sans nose-holding.
then stands with you through everything else.
.....fleeting moments and the daily grind.
from the city of wind, in a love-hate tango with nostalgia, doubts there'll ever be a point when common will not be relevant, gawks at/writes about chefs and food ish part-time, working to get to that officialized wine graduation without the expected snooty acumen, revels in (eases) life's cherry pits, and fueled by words & beats.