I can’t remember the last time I was kissed. It’s been about two months since the last time I was touched, but I’m living in a desert of a different kind. I’m trying to think about how long it’s been since I’ve really been felt, and really been seen. Have I ever? When was the last time my pulse screamed to me that I exist as I felt the pressure of a pair of lips against my lips?

I’ve been lighting candles and waiting for the rain today and I’ve been thinking. I seem to do a lot of that these days when I’m not too busy cozying up to loneliness – the thinking, the waiting on any kind of rain to fall in and seep through this desert.

I don’t mind it, I like being alone most of the time, but I’ve been thinking about the different kind of alone I am lately. I keep up with my friends. I go out. But I find myself having mundane and forced conversations with people who couldn’t begin to understand the things that would come out if I pulled open my chest. I’m homesick for something I’m not quite sure exists.

I know back doors and the colors and shades of exit-only signs like I know the shape of my own body. And what I mean to say is that there’s always some sort of leaving, something that never stays; that there’s something that never quite sticks.

I look around and think about how comforting it would be to feel a bigger, yet empowering, presence beside me, to feel that light weight of someone’s hand at the small of my back. Some nights I write my poetry, write in my journal and stop to just lay there and imagine I was having these conversations and letting these thoughts out to someone who was looking at me and could feel me with each work I’d speak. Some nights it creeps up on me after the bar, not just the want for someone else’s skin to awaken the pores in mine, but the companionship.

I see people falling in love and people in love around me, people having somewhere to seek refuge in from the hurricanes. To be honest, I can’t remember anything about my last date, not even what month it was, I just remember feeling un-amused. I haven’t been on one since. I was only a fantasy to the last notch on my bedpost. And I’m not quite sure the last one I played phone-tag with and always found myself with at 3 AM even knew my last name. Then there was this other of ‘understandings’ that I’m not quite sure stimulated other parts that weren’t as easy to access.

I think I’d rather be this way, as much as I’m craving connection, I’d rather be alone than live a reality I don’t want with someone who couldn’t begin to graze the person I am. I’d rather be alone than live a lie. I’d rather be alone than in something mediocre, something less than what would sate this thirst.

I’m alone and I’m fine. I don’t mind staying this way. I’ve been coming closer and closer to myself, even amidst all the aching. I am alone and I’m fine. I think I’d much prefer it this way until I hold hands with someone who makes me feel like the stars tangled themselves between our fingers. I am alone and it’s completely fine. He must be somewhere out there, but for now I’m alone and I’m fine.