it would be nice to know whether or not everything could work out.

she told me one of her fantasies, tonight.

told me of how she wanted to just do chores around the house and cook and raise her garden and she was going on and on and i kind of laughed and asked what i would do.

knowing that i wouldn't be happy just sitting there, letting her do all the work. knowing that i enjoy washing dishes and that i would weed and knowing that i have this strange want to clean gutters.

she said, "you would read and write."

i'm a big fan of ee cummings, and so perhaps it is him i'm channelling when i say she can make me blossom. spring open and feel the sun pouring into me at 230 in the morning.

it's something altogether different to know that she believes in my writing enough to just let me do it.

to know that, right now, she would like to just fall asleep with me at night.

even though neither one of us is supposed to want that.

neither one of us is supposed to be thinking about futures or desires or wants much less urges that come from deep within and make you bowl the other person over.

perhaps it gives me hope i shouldnt have and it allows her to hold on to something she should disconnect from and move forward.

but i know she's thinking of me curling behind her and holding onto her as i sleep.

and she knows that somewhere i'm waiting to stare at her with half-hidden awe in my eyes.

but there's those damn 1600 miles (1623, i think, from my apartment to her campus) and that perhaps two years before anything could realistically happen.