This Is Not A Heart

He is waiting for me–at the park, on the street, in a bar, at a show, at the art murmur, at the venue, at the coffee shop, at the farmer’s market, on the bus, at the used bookstore, in my heart. Eventually, we will get the timing right and like two balls in a game of pool we will fall in the same corner pocket, like two birds with one stone we will both fall to the ground, like my six lucky lotto numbers I always bid on that one day will win the jackpot. He is the jackpot I’m waiting for. He is the thunder to my lightning. But I’m not much of a gambler, and I rarely approach strangers, so I wait for the assholes to come to me.

I’ve got a penchant for heartbreakers and symbiotic relationships, the kind of boys that only call you after ten pm. The kind of boys that are just tally marks on my bedpost, no romantic illusions about falling love, just getting by by getting off, satisfactory satisfaction. I wish my liberal college education offered “How to Fall in Love 101.” There is nothing that psychology cannot quantify:  “How many people are out there that you can build a strong, beautiful, lasting love with. And the answer is, 350,000,” says Dr. Epstein, the professor of this course.   Maybe I need more soul gazing, the love aura, and more invasion of my personal space to truly grasp what love is and how to fall in it.