Meet me on Tyrone Avenue.
And there we can get some coffee.
Maybe catch a flick.
Talk about how our days were.
Laugh about life's mundanities.
We'll be friends for a while.
Then one day I'll slip and fall for you.
And you'll tell me it's all you've ever wanted.
And we'll be together from then on.
We'll meet for lunch frequently.
I'll tell you how I hate my hair today.
You'll tell me it looks perfect.
I wont listen.
I'll tell you you're going to be late for work.
You'll walk me to my car.
We'll exchange a shy kiss or two.
I'll go home and prepare for your return.
Maybe chicken Marsala.
You'll work late.
I'll be frustrated and lonely.
You'll come home and hear me fuss.
And then you'll pull out a ring.
And I'll be stupidly happy.
You'll make me the happiest woman in the world.
And one day I'll tell you 'happy Father's Day'.
And you'll be stupidly happy.
And we'll have a little family.
We'll grow old and more in love.
We'll sit on our porch and watch the birds in the morning.
We'll read the papers together.
We'll watch our babies fall in love like we once did.
And we'll meet for coffee on Tyrone Avenue.
These anti-depressants might not actually be productive. Because I feel more wayward upstairs than ever, come to think of it.
Sometimes I am able ensnare a glimpse of something vivid and domestic, and everything feels orderly again, and I feel like I have a grasp on reality, finally. But then I glance away for one moment. And when I turn back, it is nowhere to be found, and I am alone once more in this inexorable growth of thought.
I am lost again, and I cannot find my way out. And it is all in my head, and I know it is, but I simply cannot push through it.