That Kind Of Woman

Terminal love. Airport adulation. 
Tired limbs cast about haphazardly.
Waiting.
Warriors in work wear. 
Earbuds as weapons.
Binding us together as a great moving mass.
I look for you.
Simple glances here and there.

A parade of emotions across my exhausted face.
Cannot I find you at our home?
Resting my spine against the stucco walls,
denim legs against the simply ugly carpet.
I think of it. Home.
What it means to each of these strangers.
The homeless couple on the corner in Waikiki.
They curl up next to each other, in the home they built.
What it means to the women with the Coach bags and the Burberry scarves.
Materials marking their worth, but not their love.
My blood flows evenly as I see all this.

Hours, time zones, stewards in uncomfortable looking shoes. 
Gates, zones, seating. Upright trays. In flight meals.
Warriors I tell you. Chins up, looking forward.
Making home out of their carry on luggage. 

I need more. I need solid ground. I need a place to throw off my clothes.
A familiar scent. A familiar welcoming thresh hold.  A familiar face.

I need things of my own, I need a place to rest my head and heart.
I need a place to dream. 

-unedited words by me

(Source: thatkindofwoman)

Romantic despair, I call it. 

The most wonderful notion of knowing what you need romanticly.
No longer do you go open eyed into every encounter you have with an attractive member of the opposite sex. Instead we stand armed with a checklist of things that are necessary, unecessary or forgivable.

First, forgive me for all my romantic ideals, for my commands. I just want someone to challenge me, as well as meet and overcome all the mental obstacles I build around my heart. I demand, I desire, I deny. I am a Rubik’s cube of romantic opportunity.  I am all intentions, I have plans, I have plans about plans. I will fight, grab and want. I need for you to do the same. Do not tell me you don’t know, tell me what you want. Tell me you want for nothing. Tell me that it is working, or it isn’t. I can’t read you mind, so I say what’s on mine. Blunt, perhaps. Or maybe I just know that moments are precious and if I have expectations then I won’t spend trying to find out what I want. Or finding out you don’t really want me. Fight for me. 

I want a confidante. I want someone who will grab me up and laugh loudly with me. Be foolish with me. Touch my elbow, or arm. Let me know that you, like me, sometimes just have to reach out and touch. Double check, that this, us, is as real as it’ll ever be. I don’t want the moon, don’t throw a lasso over it and bring it to my door. Don’t bring a boombox under my window. Don’t even pick me up after my sister’s wedding when everyone forgot my birthday with your perfect hair and your perfect car Jake Ryan.

Just indulge me on my silly requests. Get my jokes, even when they are horrid. Understand how my “blog” makes me feel. Listen to my music. Kiss me often. Do something with me. Let’s build something, or make something. Hell, let’s invent something. I just want it to be about challenging each other, or understanding the horrible days. Let me cry, I am not pleasant nor pretty when I am snotty and weepy, but just let me get it out. 

Love my pets. Get along with animals, if you don’t I just may have to kick you to the curb. Unconditional love from an animal is something a lot of people don’t understand, but a hell of a lot of people do. I will cook for you, I will come home from a long day and throw on some sweats and botch. I will try to be positive. Our lives are not a J.Crew weekend Lookbooks. I am not always beautiful in the morning, Usually I am not, in fact. 

I am sarcastic. I am sassy, when need be. I will stand up for what I believe. I will fight my own fights. But you having my back is always nice.

I drink beer, and please don’t buy me a miller or bud light. I drink whiskey. I eat meat. I devour salads. I dance, enthusiastically and wildly. 

I want to live in the city, but not too long, I want to settle in the countryside, but not too soon. I want to have a garden. I want to instill the same values my parents instilled into me into my kids. I don’t want to have kids until I am emotionally, and financially ready. 

I want to name them ridiculously old fashioned names like Archer, and Gwendolyn. I want to fall head over heels and yet I don’t want to give up my independence.

I call it romantic despair, and it really just gets more despairing. 

Honestly, I know you, sir, are out there. I know. I feel it when I finish books like The Age of Innocence, I know that once I find you, or you find me, or we are thrown together by the universe that it won’t be perfect. It will be hard, and work. I can’t wait, though because once you get to know me you know if I want something, really really want something, I work damn hard to get it, or as close as I can get. 

(Source: thatkindofwoman)

“What’s your favorite part of my body?” 

It was an October night when they lay in bed. She’d just changed the sheets from the lighter, high thread count to a flannel. The flannel one’s he had brought the day they moved in. “Flannel?” she had laughed “you only have flannel sheets for all year long?” He had dropped the sheets and grabbed her around the waist thowing her over his shoulder spinning her around the new and box filled apartment.

He was silent. Then he rolled over in bed and pulled the sheets away from her body. She was wearing the tops to his pajamas. 

“Is there a limit?” He grinned, crookedly. “Or may I start from your toes and work my way up?”

She chuckled at him, and pulled the flannel sheet back over her legs. “You may pick 3 parts.” She spoke in a voice surer than her own. 

“In a particular order?” he asked. He was grinning wide and goofily.

“Would you just answer the question!” She sounded embarassed for asking it.

He looked at her for a moment, and she was tempted to hide her face under the covers.

“I will answer under the condition you answer it too. Your three favorite parts of my body. I say one, you say one. Deal?”

“Deal.” She sat up a little on the pillow and flattened the flannel along the sides of her thighs. She looked at him, widening her eyes and smirking. Indicating he should start.

” Alright bossy woman, Freckle on your left hip. Or the general left hip area.”

 ” Your shoulder blades.”

“In between your eyebrows, like right now, when you crease it slightly.”

She raised a hand to it, and he caught her fingers and kissed them and made Pepe la Pew noises. She laughed, and shook her head.

“You foolishly funny man. Your right third rib. Last one, now.”

“Your bottom lip.”

 ”Your lips.”

“Both? I mean, I am partial to your bottom.”

She bit her lip, darting her tongue out to dampen it.

“That! Right there, men have been conquered by such beauty.”

She did hide under the covers that time. Only to dive at him and press her cold  toes against his legs. He yelped.

After a wrestling match they lay legs entwined. Her fingers tickled his side. His trailed the bone of her hip.

“Do you think Pepe La Pew ever found a lady skunk?” He asked.

“I hope so.” She replied.  

(Source: thatkindofwomand)

i want to write something. and yet my brain is not formulating anything other than the recognition of the heater spewing out warm air, and my fingers tapping on the keys. I remember watching in awe as freestyling poets just let these verses roll off their tongues, full sonnets with in minutes. Not here, no sir, just fumbling of my finger tips, of my brain and what thought process up down and sideways. Nothing concrete, just flashes of pictures, moments that have happened and that I want to happen.

Things should go as planned sometimes just so that we can cling to the hope things will go fine once again. Like days where everyone complains about the rough times. Well if everything was easy then it would be a mediocre life, no passion about success or failure.