I have no desire for adventures in far off lands
Or romantic rendezvous with men
that I make up 90% of who they are while they show me a meager 10% of character that intrigues me just enough to entertain messy top lipped sessions in dark corners.
And, I clench my breathes awaiting for that vibrant 10% to be unwavering past the first few hours
in anticipation for weekends
holed up in a bed I call my own if only for the credit card hold with my name on it.
And we play house and pretend it’s not as rented a fantasy as the apartment we christen every last inch of.
No, now I only desire for a man to waltz into my life in the middle of an ordinary sunny day and declare with every inch of Nobel dullness that he can conjure up and simply declare
I’m him and you are her.
No more second guessings or tireless games of chase. For we leave all of that to the daredevil amateurs with far too many years left to make mistakes and enjoy the in-between months of sullen broken hearts.
I only desire the romantic gestures that comes with assurance and clarity.
An old world patina of a life well lived. Fine lines upon a face that have been broken in as slight evidence of summers spent in Mallorca and Puglia and the Moroccan desert.
An exhale exists between us in the knowing that this is finally it.
A glow of golden safety that only a child of countless abandonments can truly be intoxicated in and drunk off the mundane of quiet commitment.
A flash of youth still sparkles in the truth of words exchanged in the hours where the living is less alive and the dead seem to reside.
There is no room left for broken promises, unfaithful actions or the otherwise.
We settle into a life that is comfortable and familiar as one’s favorite old sweater slipped into after a long day of battling the friends and foe of this life.
Yes, quiet commitment sounds right.
