---I just want to come home to imperfection.
To a kitchen filled with empty beer cans and a living room of half opened wine bottles. To bedroom floors that are littered with clothes and bathrooms trashcans holding used condoms and make up stained tissue papers.
I want to sit in the dark, light scented candles, fixate my eyes on the flickering flame, listen to blues, drink tea, curl up in a woolen blanket naked, fall asleep with my mind swirling and heavy with the scent of vanilla.
I want to get up at half past noon. Wear my hair up. Turn round the corner and light a cigarette. Sit at the junction of two streets and sip on caramel soy lattes. Watch people perhaps, or read a book.
And when dusk starts sinking in, I want to walk down the pier, bury my feet in the sand, take in the salty air, listen to seagulls cry, try to count the number of stars in the sky, lie under them until the waves touch the tips of my feet.
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I'm just in this really mellow mood right now. I don't feel like seeing people, laughing or having big conversations. I just want to be alone and embrace the intimacy of it all.
If plans unfold, then they shall.
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I hate how you never fail to ruin every night for me. It's not heartbreaking. It's just the sickening feeling of disappointment that envelopes me and sucks life out of me entirely.
I hate feeling like this. I honestly do.
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Odd how I enjoy conversations with you, even if it is so trivial.