No matter how much I enjoy my solitude and life without a committed male companion, I cannot seem to get used to sprawling out and occupying the entire space that is my bed – at least, not in an unconscious, natural way.
It is as if my relationships throughout the years have conditioned me to expect “him” to come home or have “him” waiting for me to walk through the door.
You see, I have always had “him” and he has always had me.
Half-filling the space with momentary surrogates alleviates some of the innate desire to find a permanent model of my perfect male specimen – 6 feet 0 inches of height so my head can nuzzle fittingly into his chest to listen to his heart, a dark thick mane and eyes so dark I can get lost in them – but it does not all together satisfy my craving.
Though temporarily filled with intimacy real and the design same – eating in bed, watching movies in bed, laughing in bed, kissing in bed – my bed remains covered in the color of snow not yet having met the one that will, with me, paint it glorious shades of passion-enlivened hues.
Until then, I make real attempts to inch over to that side and make it mine, too.
But, the reality of the matter is, that space is waiting.
It remains firm and refuses to be persuaded by the “others”.
That side is “his”.
And my bed will not deny it.
My bed has never denied it.
The denial was my own.
But I am now open for “him” to come home.
Listening to: "Black Milk" by Massive Attack