Don't Call Me Exotic

My friend C and I often sit around over a shared plate discussing dating in Seattle. Not only Seattle but Sydney, London and all the other places we have lived.

One thing we are quite adamant about is that we do not respond well to being identified as exotic.

Peacocks anywhere but India are exotic.
Moulin Rouge dancers are exotic.
Cane toads destroying the Australian sugar fields are exotic.

I however, am not.

If you see me that way, you need to travel more.

Everywhere

I see you everywhere.

Every bike rider who sweeps passed on the street turns my head. The confident ones, no matter their colour, make me double take to see if it is you.

When my apartment is buzzed, I answer and wait to hear that it is you. It never is. There is a gasp of hope and anticipation and then a thump as my heart is bitch slapped by reality.

You are gone.

That is OK.

I'd rather you be happy.

I lie in bed and close my eyes and imagine you sleeping next to me. With my insomnia, I used to watch you sleep. Your eyelids would flutter and you'd sigh at whatever you were dreaming. I'd kiss you and like the kissing ninja you are, you'd kiss me back mid-sleep as if you saw me coming every time. Those were the moments I spent with you that you didn't spend with me, consciously.

For all the drama and the pain that you caused, I will confirm that it was worth it.

Thank you for the ride of my life. Thank you for the first true love of my life.

I'd change nothing. Nothing.

Now, go do amazing things and know I love you.

Stoopid immune system.