Posting on January 9, 2019, but written quite sometime ago:
I am an old lady with my Bible in my purse, shopping alone in a Christian bookstore.
I am a lonely poet talking to himself making breakfast.
I am a neglected house husband waiting to take his wife upstairs and lay her back on the bed like an empty dress.
I am a terrible frantic mess on airplane rides.
I am a discontented reader, nodding off on the first page and waking up hours later with a book on my chest.
I wake up to naked photos of you on my phone I didn’t ask for, and don’t want. Take them back … delete them.
I am your trainer, taking your hands and running them down my physique.
I am hungry but not for food.
I am a seeker on a path where there are no definite answers, only faith.
I am fanatical about your long dark hair.
I want something meaningful from you.
I am not a drinker, but I am a drunk who wants more of your spirit.
I found your book of poems in the library and I stood, reading, dumbfounded, fresh from divorce and longing to meet you because of your words. You know Bukowski? That is enough to warrant a marriage proposal.
I am truth, but not the light or the way.
I want to see you in your clothes first.
I am a believer in you … and yet I know you will let me down.
I have a strong faith, a firm foundation, but still find it in myself to sin.
I set a wonderful example for my children, but I wouldn’t want them to read this.
I am a keeper of my word.
I am in a much better place, but still darker than where you are.
I am not afraid to “put myself out there.” Are you?