Carpe Diem


I was having a really bad day and wasn’t sure if I should cancel our coffee date.

It’s not like we’ve ever met before.

You were just another Tinder match.

You were just another distraction.

I freshened up anyway; put on some sexy underwear, jean shorts, and a satin tank top. My hair and makeup were on point and I felt that after such a harsh day, I deserved a fun night with a cute stranger.

We met in the parking lot, walked into the cafe together and placed our drink order.

I found us a quiet corner.

I’m instinctively courteous. I’m also oblivious.

I never know if my date is into me on a romantic level or just mirroring my politeness.

But then you purposely grazed your fingertips against my leg. At first I thought it was an accident since we were sitting in close proximity; but then you did it again, and again.

We talked until the cafe closed.

You impulsively offered to teach me how to play the drums with the set you kept at your rehearsal studio. I was intrigued, so I followed you there and arrived to an industrial lot with unmarked doors leading to creative spaces (or torture chambers).

I marveled at the entire setup. There was a loveseat, amps, a drum set, keyboard and other thingamabobs. Posters on the walls and a faint scent of cannabis lingering in the air. It was very punk rock/rock n’ roll to me and I was impressed.

I sat on the loveseat and assumed we were going to continue where we left off at the cafe. And as I was chatting your ear off, you sat down next to me. Then you boldly wrapped your arm around my shoulders and pulled me close for our first kiss.

It wasn’t until our 3rd or 4th date, you disclosed to me about how you wanted to kiss me the moment you laid eyes on me in that parking lot…

I told you that I wanted you to be mine. In a very similar way that Justin Long put it in the film Comet,

If I were a restaurant, you’d be my special.

But nobody could order you, ’cause I’d just want you to be mine… just all mine…

Not… in like… a biblical slavery-owning sense,

or a pimp-prostitute dynamic of “you be mine, bitch,”

but… but just in that… you’re my love.

You’re my love.

I felt disheartened when your quick responses to my texts changed to taking all day to respond; which then changed to a day later; and finally stopped all together.

Nothing lasts forever, nothing is permanent.


And that stupid fucking ache…that feels like a stupid fucking virus.

The memory of you faded to the point where I questioned if you were ever real or just a figment of my imagination; I then realized how detrimental my habit of living in the past & future is.

The past is so sugar sweet; which is why I missed you.

And let’s just all agree that when it comes to romantic relationships, fuck the future. I just want more, more and more. But unfortunately, people change; people leave; people lie.

All we have is now and I am slowly learning how to carpe the fucking shit out of my diems.


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