© Bree DeRoche 2012
I have a stowaway. It clings to me … all day … all night. It follows me from room to room. It runs with me, showers with me, jumps into bed with me.
At night when I try to sleep, it demands my attention. Liquid warm and honey-smooth, it entwines itself around me. It whispers to me. It makes me promises.
It chases away my demons. It keeps me safe.
It chases away my slumber. I can't sleep.
I can't eat. I can't think. I can't focus.
It elates my every cell … sweet reverie … sweet anticipation … sweet addiction. It fills my fantasies with helium, tugging playfully, threatening to take flight, long curly ribbons fluttering.
It takes herculean strength to keep myself anchored, to not soar off into the abyss. Sometimes the abyss pulls me from the other direction. I have no hope.
Sleep is no escape. My stowaway is there too … in dreams set on endless oceans. Lolling buoyantly on our backs, we float, in a warm azure sea. Me and my stowaway. Just you and me. Drowning in the sea of love.
And in the morning, when I wake, my stowaway leaps into bed with me, before I’ve even opened my eyes. A warm sweet rush, kissing my face, demanding my attention. Making me love it. I have no hope.
My stowaway is my thoughts … and all of my thoughts are of you.
It’s a constant distraction. It’s impossible to focus. My work takes twice as long. I read the same lines over and over. I get stuck writing sentences, grasping for words beyond the Lexicon of Love. "Soft", "sweet", "heart", "kiss" … these words don't fit in articles I'm hired to write, on automobiles and robotics. I doodle lovehearts on my tax invoices. I accidentally sign-off business memos with kisses …
Focus, dammit, focus!
I check my email obsessively for contact … from you. You're too far away during the day. I yearn for your messages from cyberspace. I covet your X’s and O’s. I feed off your words, your adoration. I giggle at your plight, the daily commute, your observations from the train. I live in your inbox. I want to crawl into your heart, drag in my sofa, fluff the pillows, make chai.
I count the hours, the minutes, the seconds, until you’re back and I can submerge myself in the nape of your neck. Your sweet pheromones that make my skin sweat and prickle in goosesbumps, all at the same time.
My sweet obsession.