Red Wine

My life can be defined in nights, wine, and cold mornings. It's never semi-dramatic. It's either not dramatic at all, or a full-out soap opera. Except no one dies and comes back saying they're someone's long lost twin sister. Although that would be pretty cool! But no. No. It's defined in years of crushing and lusting after one person, and then almost getting that person but not.
GETTING. I don't even know what that means anymore.
Staying up all night, slowdancing to hardcore in our underwear. Making breakfast at 7am after watching the sunrise, pillow talk, and me realizing that there is NO WAY that I don't like this boy. He's my constant, my never-ending need, and sometimes I just breathe him in, because that is the only way I'll ever have him. I can go weeks without seeing him or really even talking to him, but give me a glass of wine and put us behind closed doors, and it's all us from there on in. I see him and realize I miss him. I get jealous easily, and I know that I can't keep him, or else I will get hurt. Endless real-journal entries are about him, about us, and he'll probably always be in my psyche. Whether I want him there or not.
Call me a whiner. Do it. Call me a hopeless romantic. Call me a fool.
I am all of the above.
My life is defined in endless afternoons. It's defined in emails, laundry, and pots of coffee. It's the sun dipping below the horizon, the air warming to spring, and the mud squishing between the toes of giants.
It's defined by you.
Most of all, it is defined in photographs and written words. It is the pen on the paper, my semi-cursive tracing across the page and lyrics written on my leg in marker. It is my life here. It is my life alone.

It's like the empty bottle of red wine on my coffee table.