Yanking the Plug

If I had my way, I’d move in with you in an instant. Maybe even marry you if given the chance. I’d have let my life be swallowed in yours; I would gladly merge myself in you as the smoothest of silks cling to my skin after every bath. I will wear these clothes, as you will engulf me in the unsafe-security of your life. So that we’ll be bound to take each step together, every side steps however which way made together. We could be each other’s shadows and maybe I’d stitch you to myself like Wendy stitched Peter Pan’s unto himself after keeping it folded beneath her own silken dresses in her antique drawer.

But if ever that would be the case, someday I’d have to un-stitch every poorly stitched edges until my hands get calloused from doing so, to atone myself for sins that you and I have both done. Someday, I’d have to put you away, have you folded and tucked in my bottom drawer, have it locked and keep the keys in my pocket because by then, the once-comfortable shadow I’ve worn might be in tatters and shan’t be worn anymore.

There’d be no vine-covered cottages for us, where we would’ve spent each day of our blissfully wretched lives even though I already know the plot of the garden we will plant, every seed to be planted, every plant to be cultivated, every stem to be grafted.

There’d be no domestic animals for us to feed and keep even though I know that we will adopt two blue-eyed, white Huskies: one male, one female named Sam and Lighting respectively. No cats would be allowed because I’m quite allergic to it, I wouldn’t want to sneeze each time I pick them and die on the floor hacking nor find my bedposts scratched because of its territorial issues. Sea creatures are definitely allowed; I could stare at them for hours until I’d find myself with a diamond-patterned shell on my back hiding from curious-lookers.

There’d be no kids for us. No bassinet to paint, no formulas to fix at 4 in the morning, no incessant wails reverberating in the walls of our vine-covered cottage. Although I would have wanted to named our kid Eric if it’s a boy or something romantic-sounding like Guinevere if it’s a girl.

There’d be no bed for us to share, no table to dine-in even if I’ve been thinking of getting oak-made furniture (because oaks are supposed to last a long time) and I would’ve matched our sheets with the curtain’s color which would’ve been robin’s egg blue complemented with white. Our kitchen would have to be yellow with hardwood floors accented with old and mellowed red bricks with big windows so sunlight could stream through while I fry the eggs over-easy for breakfast.

If I had my way. But I don’t.

I don’t even know your face nor caressed your morning stubble nor kiss you the way I would. If I had my way. You’re just a faceless voice connected to me through this white wire that keeps getting tangled in me as I walked across my own kitchen (colored white for sterility) to grab a cold beer from the fridge. Twisting and turning I futilely tried to release myself until I had to yank it out of the plug. And the line went dead.