You Make Your Own Luck

I have planned our wedding. I have pictured our children. I have purchased years with of birthday presents for you in my mind. I have driven for hours and upon arriving at my doorstep had no recollection of how I got from point A to point B. Forget the road, I can only remember that I spent the ride have imaginary conversations with you. It was the best company I have had in years. Please kiss me. Right now. I want to know what your skin feels like. I cannot form sentences when I am around you, but if I could I would quote something brilliant from Poe. I would report a fascinating story I read from the New York Times this morning. I would tell you the story of giving my shoes to the child on the side of the road in Honduras. You would be impressed. I would be more than that giggling girl who trips over her own feet. I wish I could wear my layers like sweaters, and slowly peel them all off before you so that I could prove to you that I more than one of those typical girls and more than this beat up hoodie. I wish I was a mind reader. I wish I knew what you were thinking, unless of course, you are thinking about anything else but kissing me, because in that case, I do not want to know. What if you are actually thinking about that girl I saw in the photo with you, who is prettier than me, and possibly more interesting? I bet you love her. I bet she doesn’t trip over her own feet. I bet she can string sentences together. Something in the way you stand there turns me into an adolescent version of myself, hearing your voice leaves me squeamish for hours. I went to get a manicure and I stood in front of the display of hundreds of possible polish choices and actually based my choice on what I thought might be your favorite, if I happened to see you, ever...again... and it happened to be in the next 4 days before I had bitten all my nails off in anticipation of maybe, possibly, seeing you ever...again. I am hanging off the tip of every word you say, and you barely know I am alive. Or worse yet, you know I am alive and do not care. Even worse yet, you know I am alive, and you think I am that squeamish, obsessive, giggling, strange girl who is just plain weird instead of the uber hot, smart, cultured, dream girl I am trying to hard to act like. Please, do not just stand there. Kiss me or my heart might stop.