Serendipity.

Have you ever met someone who understands the very essence of your soul without you having to explain? Someone whose life parallels yours in ways, both big and small, that create a shared history without actually having one.  Someone who gets your Star Wars jokes and doesn’t even blink when you visibly admire his “Han shot first” tattoo. In fact, he urges you to read the books, and opens your eyes to a whole new world of Imperial Grand Admirals and Dark Jedis. He tells you you’re amazing and, for the first time in a long time, you believe it. You can talk about music and movies and politics and religion without arguing, even though you may disagree. He’s the first to call out sexism, be it blatant or subtle, and listens to your experiences without judging or diminishing them. He tells you you’re beautiful and looks in your eyes and you end up breaking your own rule and kissing him first because you just can’t stop yourself. Then the two of you make out in a bowling alley parking lot like a couple of teenagers and don’t even care when actual teenagers start yelling at you to get a room. He puts a smile on your face every time you think of him, which means you have a perpetual grin because he just won’t get out of your head. Truthfully, you don’t want him to. When you can’t get out of town, he drives almost two hours, through construction and blazing sun just to see you, and when he tells you he’d drive twice as far without hesitation, you know it’s the truth. He gets a look in his eye when he sees you, like he hasn’t quite figured out what he’s done to deserve you. Frankly, you don’t quite understand it because you’re still grappling with what sort of good fortune has resulted in the perfect man being dropped right into your lap. He misses you after 10 minutes apart and isn’t afraid to tell you. In fact, you miss him after 10 minutes, too. When you haven’t heard from him in awhile, you check your phone, and as you’re putting in the passcode, you hear the ding that means he’s just texted you. He makes you believe in “there’s someone for everyone” and has you hoping that he is that someone. He makes you understand why it didn’t work out with anyone else, and makes you so thankful for everything that lead up to this amazing moment.

I don’t know if this is unique, or if this is how everyone feels. All I know is that I never, ever want to wake up.

First Date

Sitting in your car by the ocean
You were so nervous
And you burnt your mouth on peppermint tea in an attempt to be smooth.
We laughed till we cried and I couldn’t remember
The last time I had felt so at ease.

I couldn’t stop my gaze from resting
On your beautifully imperfect incisors
Framed by rotund lips of velvet, I yearned to feel
Your breath on my cheek.

Your abrupt departure shook me
Until your clarifying text
“I’m getting sick – that’s why I left.
I would like to see you again.”

And when I woke the next day to see
The rose you picked, sitting on my dresser
I couldn’t help but smile.

© T. Kalau 2013

In Other News, I’m Secretly Twelve Years Old

I’m bad at dating.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m good at relationships… but the whole getting-to-know-each-other and the vague what-is-going-on-here that follows? Not my forte. I like absolutes, I like definites, I like black and white and not a hint of grey, and that just doesn’t happen with dating.

I end up overthinking and questioning and generally just being a neurotic mess, because I don’t do things half-assed. Either I like you, or I don’t. And if I like you, I’m all in.

Of course, this generally makes me come across as overzealous or neurotic, or, when I don’t like people, a cold hearted bitch. Moderation is not my strong point. It’s very obvious how I feel about people. However, I’m also shy and terrified of rejection. The end result is me wearing my heart on my sleeve, but not doing a damn thing about it until the other person makes a move.

So there’s this guy. He made the first move. And the second move. And the third. And now I have it bad for him with no clue as to if he’s on the same page. Did I mention he’s out of the country for a week? And that I’m in the midst of moving? My brain feels like it’s about to explode with frustration.

I’m pretty sure, if all my old journals weren’t already packed, that with a few minor changes, I could dredge up a hundred other times I have said this same schtick since I first started the ritual of courtship. Is it going to change? Probably not. Do I want it to? Not really. I’m a passionate person, and that means I can’t hide what I think and feel. One day, somebody is going to get that, and I won’t live in the land of maybes and what-ifs and does-he-like-mes.

Until then, though, I’m going to hide in my blanket fort and watch PowerPuff Girls while I wait for him to text.