I look forward to the days when I’ll have a love that plays out like the movies.
You know, the kind where he’s driving on a cliff-side road with a view of the ocean, and the windows are rolled down and we’re laughing as the wind blows through our hair.
And we’ll keep riding until we get to the secret spot we’ve decided to make our own.
We’ll have lunch picnics there and I’ll probably punch him for trying to jump out at me from behind the bushes.
We’ll take hikes and scenic walks.
Or maybe we’ll come back at night just to look at the stars.
There will be just enough trees to create a picture frame of the sky, and we will be our own visionary art, dancing in the dark.
A hideaway, a chance to catch some privacy.
A chance to be.
Yet as I sigh the sigh of a hopeless romantic waiting for this day, I venture by myself to this place that I will share with my ‘soulmate’ and I feel as if I’ve found my home.
My toes dig into the dirt and for some reason, it’s okay that it’s just me, myself, and I.
It’s okay that I’m alone, because I’m not lonely.
In fact, in this time and place, in my own company, I have never felt more full.