I am welcome

At 11 pm the row of lights atop of the Hancock tower blink off. Up here I can look passing clouds in the eye. Up here I look down over buildings as windows shut their eyes and go dark for the night. It's that time again. Time again I'm listening to the sound of him sleeping next to me, sounding like the soft purr of a giant cat. It's time again I look out over the skyline, over the night city, and wonder.

I never know how to figure these out. I can lie here suspecting that this man just won't understand certain parts of me. But roll the tape back even one month to a man I thought did understand. Re-hear his talk; the sweet and understanding language. Hold his subsequent behavior up to the light and observe what hideous revelation of character eventually brought into view. His soul rotted in self-pity, his mind full of drink: it's sad to watch someone fall so perilously far short of the person they could be. Sad for him. I step over the body and move on with amazing alacrity.

Perhaps expecting someone to "care", to "understand", is simply too much and too gooey a goal to really understand in physicality should it arrive at the door. What does this understanding look like? What does it sound like? What does it ACT like? Perhaps it's a gift one only gives yet truly releases the strings. Maybe the math on feeling "known" will never balance out. It's fruitless effort on an impossible equation. I look around my full life and don't know what it is I want or somehow think I need. There's nothing, really, nothing I need. But the question of how can I just not hurt one more person with selfish behavior for one more day persists. I'd like to say that I would like someone to be good to. But is that, too, selfish? What spark of my own happiness am I expecting to come flying out of some man? Why am I here? The horns atop the tower blink red, warning planes and keeping a pace for all insomniacs of the city. What do I do here, god? How am I to be authentic, here, today?

Roll over and watch him sleep, face relaxed in an unconscious lack of expression. It's the same face I see as he answers the door or cleans up after me when I spill precious chocolate milk in the kitchen. He wears only his own face and there's no denying it's simply beautiful. He shuffles slightly, perhaps sensing my regard from the distance of his dream. Settling back in, his purring returns. I hate to admit it. It will feed right into that big Italian ego, but he really is the best lover. I doubt the oracle telling me to 'go ahead with this' every day, but when has certainty ever been a guarantee? Never.

I retrieved the cracked offerings of my affection from him who tossed them back so carelessly. And I'm fine. It was mine to keep all the time & I'm certainly not less anything in the attempt. Maybe I try too hard to give away that which I should be keeping.

As we part in the morning, wishing each other good day with a peck, it hits me just what I'm seeking. I want him to tell me outright, in that very moment, that he wants me to see me back as soon as possible, wants to call me, looks forward to seeing me again. I'm just looking for a welcome. Just another person hoping their heart doesn't die homeless. So that's what it is.

Unusually warm air kisses my face as I step out into a sun drenched morning. Saunter down the street like a soft jazz song plucked on a Les Paul. Despite all my thinking, who couldn't smile, now?