Babe,
if you were my man I'd start off by calling you babe.
I think it's **** in a confident to the point kind of way, just like my love for you.
I would run into your arms in a ***** dancing lift kind of manner each time I see you, just because that's how excited I would be to see you, every single time.
I would kiss you. I would ******* ravish you with my tongue, lips, teeth, and you will know what it's like to kiss, what it's like to really kiss.
I would run my fingers, all of them, through your hair sweeping it back from your face and just hold you really close to mine, spending an eternity figuring out what colour your eyes really are,
cause you'd always crinkle them when we're together, cause I'd make you smile, laugh and happy all the time,
so I'd have never really seen what colour they really are, and when I find out it wouldn't matter anyway,
cause that will be my favourite shade of eye colour to begin with.
I would sit on your lap and put my arms around your neck and continue to tell my aimless yet superbly animated stories of things I saw, people I met, thoughts in my head, when all I really want is to be just that close to feel the heat of your body, your pulse and your gaze.
I will cook for you and make you do the dishes just so I can stand next to the counter and watch you align them on the drying rack with ridiculous precision, which I find lethally adorable.
I would re-learn physics, follow football, play video games, listen to punk rock all of which I really dislike, just so I can be another step closer to your world.
I would do anything, absolutely anything for you, and let you do anything to me, cause I trust you a 100%, interestingly the only man I can say that about other than my father.
I would learn to speak your language just so I can meet your family for Christmas and thank your parents from the very bottom of my heart for bringing you into this world and raising you to be the man you are.
I would however never try to change you.
I would preserve you and the perfect, raw, uncontaminated essence of humanity you carry, and rather change, adapt and give up myself to be with you.
I would vouch to spend the rest of my life with you, change my name for you and bear your children.
Babe,
if you were my man I would in a heart beat die or **** for you, and the latter over and over again.
I know you would never want me to change and like me for who I am,
ironically,
you wouldn't be my man.

Swipe--Swipe--Swipe--Swipe--
Before bed,
first thing in the morning,
when you randomly wake up in the middle of the night and can't get back to sleep,
Swipe--Swipe--Swipe--Swipe--
In the beginning it's almost like a new toy or a car,
the excitement when you first download it,
the careful precision with which your profile is created,
how into it you are all day all night,
Swipe--Swipe--Swipe--Swipe--
Then slowly a pattern emerges.
You get the insanely sporty ones,
running, jumping, swimming, lifting freaking weights,
and you think if I were looking for a personal trainer I would swipe right but no thanks.
Then there are the travelers,
on a world tour since the beginning of time with no permanent address, let alone any potential for a relationship, so you swipe left on instability.
Then there are the 6 packs and no heads,
making you wonder when muscles and treasure trails overrode eyes,
and cringing at the sight of those semi shirt lifted body shots, you swipe left.
Then there are genuinely you're not attracted type,
too much baggage type,
too good looking making you skeptical type,
standing too close to girls type,
reptiles as pets type,
really bad grammar or purging emoticons type,
alcohol is a hobby type,
no ambition or future type,
on all which you keep swiping left.
Every now and then there's the just right type, with the right amount of words and smiles,
sincerely looking for something more than *** or just good at pretending they are,
so you swipe right.
A match...
You never end up talking anyway so swiping on, all day long,
and you realize this is *******!
The only thing that's getting anything is your right index finger,
and there are much better ways in which it too can be put into use.
You realize even after expanding the age limits to highly questionable numbers and including the maximum area in distance,
and proactively lowering your standards,
you still haven't swiped right on Mr. Right.
You realize you aren't looking but rather searching for that one face, that specific personality who already escaped between your fingers like that one cute guy you accidentally swiped left on a super drunk night while eating peanut butter out of the jar,
or that one guy who you thought was perfect so you super liked but never liked you back.
You realize you are searching for a specific person who doesn't have a Tinder profile but lives in the same building as you, who'll never swipe right for you even if he had the chance.
So you unmatch all those stupidly silent, mute, mistakes of matches, reset the preferences to more respectable limits and...
Swipe--Swipe--Swipe--Swipe--

Today was special.
When I dressed up and put make up on,
and slipped on those high heels,
and did my hair to the side, sleek, straight and deep red,
I did it for me.
I sang and danced and sang and danced some more,
for me.
I hadn't smoked for 48 hours,
since you left me in my ball dress in that cold winter night,
smoking on my own,
I thought I'd quit.
I'd quit smoking and I'd quit you.
I was doing so well.
I almost made it but then....
I rolled one.
You were creeping in and out of my subconsciousness,
along with the urge for nicotine,
and I'm only human.
I'm fully aware of the consequences,
I've seen, heard and read the warnings,
on health advertisements and cigarette packets,
I know smoking and you are so bad for my heart,
but tonight I could really do with you...

I wish there was some way I could express to you how you make me feel.
Though the common language we share is different from both our mother tongues,
though I can get over my fear of sounding incredibly self absorbed,
I just can't find the right words or the right way,
because it's a lot more than that.
You are a gift. You are a blessing. You are what everyone needs
because everyone deserve to be seen the way you see me.
You see beneath my beautiful, you see beneath my perfect, you
see the story underneath my clothes and every other song lyric written about being seeing for who one truly is.
I don't put make up on for you, hell I don't even shower,
and we've already talked about pooping, say what, right?
I cooked for you and I'm the most nervous cook cause I'm shadowed by the concepts of all real women having to be excellent cooks, and I was not nervous at all.
I've told you everything about me.
You are the only man in this whole wide universe who knows everything about me.
And you're still here. You still like me. I still make you laugh and you me.
I've never met someone so... so... human. I see the very essence of humanity gushing out of you its actually mesmerizing.
I must confess I smoke more now cause it's another excuse to spend more time with you.
I keep turning every few minutes to check the buttons on the lift hoping it goes all the way up to the 9th floor and bring you down to me.
I long to meet you its genuinely like a nicotine break, like how you wait for the lecturer to give the first interval to step out for a quick smoke.
It's exactly like that but so much stronger, and unlike nicotine you are good for me and I would never ever try to give you up.
You and I, its not ******.
Honestly, you are a brother, father, friend, soulmate, lover all combined in this surreal specimen of a man, even after one and a half months I cannot still believe I met you. Or more so that men like you exist.
I would love to take this to the next level, rip your clothes off and let you make sweet love to me,
but if that's not what you want I'm ok with being what we are right now.
I really am.
I guess I just want to say thank you for seeing me for who I am.
It's been so long and I really really needed this.
I now feel empowered and I will owe you my self-confidence and self-esteem,
honestly,
*kiitos

Do you remember your first one night stand? The very first?
It's funny how in all the wrong ways it's very much like in the movies,
but in some it's not, which often leaves you properly ****** up,
many days after the actual *******.
It always starts with *****.
***** you absolute poisonous ambrosia, tell me how can you resemble
love so very well?
From the exaggerated self-confidence, delusional happiness to the shame and atrociously bitter after taste, not to mention the ****** of a hangover,
you my friend might well be love's virtuous twin.
What does 'a one night stand kind of girl' look like?
I used to think 'definitely not like me',
but tonight the discoloured mirror in my bathroom begs to differ.
She looks remarkably like me. She is me.
Perhaps there's an equation with variables of age, time and the amount of one night stands which calculates how well one fits into the model,
irrespective of the math somehow she looks strikingly similar to me.
Ability to dance topped with confident is my kryptonite.
So after dancing so **** fine, when he looked me dead straight in the eyes, and said "I want to take you home, kiss you and *******",
like hell I couldn't resist.
Everything was just like in the movies right down to the clothes
scattered all over the floor, leaving without getting his number, and
the infamous walk of shame.
But,
he was gentle.
He asked "is this really what you want" even at the very last moment,
when his naked body was lying on top of mine,
fractions of an inch away from entering me,
which made me think of my unborn son and how I will teach him about self control, respect and the vitality of consent.
How this is what a true gentleman behaves like, even when the beast within him was roaring to be unleashed.
He held me tight all night long.
He buried his face in my neck and wrapped his arms so tightly around me, I could feel his heart beat through my veins.
His cologne ran all night long and into the morning reminding me how much I used to get turned on by men's aftershave, one of my favourite scents in the world,
right amongst freshly baked cookies, rain on dry grass and wall paint.
This was not like in the movies.
As I bid him goodbye and locked his fancy apartment door behind me,
I felt rudely shaken awake from the day dream, I felt something in me drop.
It wasn't because I knew I would never see him again,
but rather 'cause I knew later tonight I'd remember last night and miss the sensation over and over again.
The phenomenon of feeling desired, the warmth that accompanies hours of drunken ***, the sweaty stickiness, the giddiness, the passion that accompany a one night stand.
Not being alone.  
A warm bed.
I knew I will miss all that. I miss all that.
I forgot my wristwatch on his bedside table.
Made me think of the time I lost.
The time I lost calculating the significant impact a one night stand would have on my dignity.
The time I am loosing thinking about the past, though so very raw and fresh, which remains unattainable.
I also forgot my earrings on the floor next to his bedside table, when I removed them in  hurry in the heat of the moment, in fear of accidentally scraping him.
Us girls, we do that a lot.
We remove pieces of ourselves to avoid hurting the fugitive men who walk in and out of our lives, and leave those pieces behind,
without realizing that with every encounter we were becoming less and less like our true-selves.
Both pieces were cheap gifts from someone in the family that I held to for many years.
They made up in sentiment what they lacked in price.
Very much like virginity.
You realize after sometime like religion, race and nationality its a socially constructed concept.
It is only as valuable and important as you want it to be.
Virginity should not define anyone.
"Virginity should not define you", I said to the girl in the mirror.
For a one night stand kind of girl, her eyes were so judgmental.

When you light a fire
to get rid of the darkness,
and end up burning all your bridges...

There's something so fundamentally romantic about a broken man
or should I simply say, "I dig that!"?
A man tormented by the demons of a shattered childhood, or
a shattered heart on which a pair of expensive pencil heels, the shiny black kind with a blood red sole, has stomped all over.
Or maybe shaken to the core from the long cold nights and
scorching days spent at a military base with gun fires and screams
ringing in his ears even after all these years.
I long to hold him,
as he twists, mourns and shivers through the nightmares,
I want mine to be the only embrace that makes them all go away.
When those scars hurt, or the injury from the practice session
is not as unbearable as the fear of not being able to play again,
I just want to hold his hands as they grip mine so tight,
almost in an attempt to transfer the pain.
When that fever is burning so high he's going in and out of reality
with a wet cloth on his forehead all bundled up and drugged, I want
my name to be the only thing he calls out.
Every now and then when he breaks down in the shower crying
his heart out, or explodes with vengeance in his eyes ready to hit,
destroy or ****, I want
my palm pressed against his heart to make the storm pass.
When he becomes unsteady and slurry, with the smell of Whiskey
overriding the aftershave, I want to be the one to take him home
and tuck him into bed.
I want to know, see, hear and feel all his pain, his fears, his
darkest moments and be the remedy, his only escape.
I don't want to fix him. Or change him. Or save him.
I want to be his lifeline, his anchor to the mortal world, and
rope ladder to heaven.