My bus. 

It’s like waiting for a bus you missed, but you know it’s gonna come back around. Probably later than expected. But nevertheless you are aware that there should be a bus coming. So you wait. On the bench. In the hot sun. Sweating. Panting. Angry. Annoyed. Just there waiting for this bus that’s supposed to come back around again. I’m going on two years with this man. My bus never came. I’ve been waiting and waiting to feel something to let me know this is IT. This is what I’ve been searching for. What I want. What I need. I’ve been waiting for this fucking bus to come. Why hasn’t my bus came? I see everybody else out here on their bus. Laughing and loving and whatever else their bus consist of. And here I am, still waiting for a gust of wind to let me know my damn bus is on its way.

I always turn to my mother for help when it comes to love. I look to her for understanding and guidance. I’m still a young woman and this man is twice my age. I tryna maintain an image for him all the while staying true to myself. I ask my mother why have I not gotten the butterflies? The excitement. I never got a pair of rose colored glasses when we met. I wanted my perspective of the world to change the moment we sat down and had a few drinks and laughed. I was hopeful. Optimistic. Even once we lied down, I’m still level headed and rational.

I wanted to that beautiful woman who just radiates the love shared between man and woman, and I’m not.

I’m not, at all.

And it bothers me.

I have a few conversations with a friend and I can not get enough of him. 
But it’s not real. 
He’s not mine. 
But the butterflies won’t lie down and remain still.

And it just further prompts validation on previous statements about chemistry.

Can sexual chemistry dictate how a relationship will go?

And if so, where’s my bus?

Written April 13,2016

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